


Northern Gospel

by DeanRH



Series: Northern Gospel [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-06 09:06:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 24,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16385228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeanRH/pseuds/DeanRH
Summary: It's the late 1990s, and Duluth, Minnesota is an economic shipwreck. Summertime, however, makes its inhabitants forget about its winters. There's promise and excitement in the warm, humid air and the lights twinkle as a backdrop to the lake, as Duluth transforms into a laid-back beach town for a few months.Dean, a deckhand on the ore boats, is taking a summer off for the first time in years. He hasn't seen his friends in ages and is eager to join them for another wild summer.One night, he sees the aurora borealis hovering above the dark waters of the lake.Or at least, that's what he thinks he sees.A love story about accidental friendships, eternity, and life lived on the edge of the water.Destiel AU.





	1. Northern Lights

_In the 6th century BC, Ezekiel, a prophet-priest of ancient Israel, saw the aurora and wrote that "...a whirlwind came out of the north, a great cloud, and a fire infolding itself, and a brightness was about it, and out of the midst thereof as the color of amber, out of the midst of the fire."_

(Ezekiel 1:4)

 

There once was an ocean that wasn't.

The great darkness that spread far as the eye could see was a lake the size of legends, cradling the dead. There were few monster stories about it; during the winter, it was monster enough.

The deep blues and purple shades of a Minnesota summer night in Duluth were warm and filled with promise. This hardworking city became a paradise for three months of the year and summer was like romance in waiting.

Dean was having none of it.

He had worked most summers aboard the lakers that traveled from one end of Superior to the other, but decided the hell with it and he'd spend this summer relaxing in the city. He never had much time to hang out with his friends or catch up, so this would be like a vacation for him. He spent the winters in the Caribbean working the yachts, and if that sounds like a vacation you've got another think coming.

The coffeeshop was like many of them, back before all the big corporations had staged their takeover and the smoking ban twined insidiously throughout the United States. Behind the glass, clouded with smoke, was a place between high school and the bar crowd, a place to meet without booze, but as cliqueish as high school and as prone to drama as the local pub would one day be. There were books everywhere, haphazard furniture, couples on the sofa cuddling – but this coffeeshop, and many like it, were a room full of friends or potential friends, which is no longer true nowadays. The people in the coffeeshop banded together, and descended upon any new arrival to meet them and gather them into the family. Anyone and everyone was accepted, but there was the same hierarchy that tended to build itself up in these places, from high school til the end of time.

He was always cast somewhere in the middle, as nobody quite knew where to put him; a traveler with a past, instead of the faked darkness from some of the kids who were coffeeshop popular, weird but not quite weird enough to be in the group of outcasts, so he drifted from group to group unsure if any of them felt he belonged to their crowd.

He didn't care. He loved it. He belonged somewhere. _There._

***

The night was beautiful, on the beach. Everyone had gone down for the bonfire, and he had joined them as he always did, although few people really spoke to him at all. He knew he was not very popular, as he was quite gruff and tended to push people away. When he had tried to be accepted, he felt like he was playacting and the intense need for companionship had awoken a strange groveling being within himself that he disliked severely, and so he never tried again.

The northern lights were in the sky, green and stretching down towards the earth. He lay on his back and stretched a hand up, close enough he thought that he might be able to touch them. They undulated across the night sky and he was reminded why he chose to take this summer off. There were not a lot of places on earth that saw the northern lights in the summer, but Duluth was one of them.

"Holy crap," said Dean, staring up at the aurora. He was drunk, he knew that; everyone else was at least drunk, if not stoned, he knew that too. He'd suddenly begun to regret his usual standoffishness from the crowd, because he wanted to know if anyone else was seeing what he was seeing.

The lights danced, that was usual; as a boy who had grown up on the shores of this northern lake in a bleak and nearly obsolete town, one of the few consistent joys had been the northern lights. Winter or summer, fall or spring, any season, you'd have a chance of seeing them; they were best in summer, when it was warm enough to light a bonfire to keep the mosquitoes away, and they could be appreciated in all their glory, instead of from indoors, blocked out by the storm windows and the plastic wrap covering every available pane of glass to keep the death-cold at bay.

This was different.

The aurora stretched from the water to what seemed like the top of the sky, fading and dancing, brilliant wings spread across the entirety of the firmament.

_An angel,_ he thought, breathless and stupid, _that's an angel._

Maybe a _real_ angel.

He pointed up at the form in the sky.

"Does anybody _see_ that?" he shouted, but he was ignored by the others, seated around the bonfire and interested more in their own conversations and beer than the miracle happening against the backdrop of night sky and stars.

Dean stared up at it, waiting for it to change. He closed his eyes and opened them again, and still the figure was there, in the shape of a man with wings that stretched across the sky. The man's head began to turn, and Dean's mind broke then. With a shout, he threw himself into the lake in terror.

He immediately regretted it; Duluth and Superior may have beautiful white sand beaches, but they are misleading. He felt like he'd dropped himself into a bucket of ice water. Spluttering and shouting, he ran back onshore shivering. Everyone was clapping and laughing.

"Brave man!" shouted someone from beyond the fire, out of view.

Dean turned back to the sky. The aurora was still there, but undefined, oscillating across the sky. The angel – if he'd been there at all – was gone. Dean cursed his own cowardice and felt strangely empty now that the sky had gone back to its original hue. The northern lights had always been amazing, no matter how many times he'd seen them over the course of his life, but this was the first time he'd felt the loss of something more.


	2. Close Encounters

_He landed, soft. The lights of the sky that made up his wings solidified into enormous feathered appendages, trailing across the ground, towering over his head. They dwarfed him and surrounded him. He approached the man alone on the sand, near enough to the party he thought he was a part of it, outside enough to remind the partygoers that he wasn't one of them. In fact, had the boy disappeared, he would not have been missed._

_The young man had noticed him; his wings blinked out of human sight._

Dean looked up, sensing that someone was standing nearby. A young man, around his age. With dark hair, part of it spiked bright blue. Punk, definitely.

"Hi," Dean said. 

The punks had always been kind to him, not so much the Goth kids, who had their own hierarchy and reminded him strongly of the jocks and cheerleaders in high school. He himself had not been a jock although he'd had the build of one, powerful muscles and all; he'd gotten himself in too much trouble fighting and that was it. He was over-cautious and did not approve of drugs, but had spent very little time during his high school career when he wasn't in trouble for something. He idly wondered if he'd have done better to just become a football player and taken out his aggression there.

"Hi," said the newcomer, "Can I sit with you?"

"Sure thing," he said, "You new here or something? I didn't see you at the coffeeshop."

"Yes," said the man, "I'm Castiel."

_Foreign_ , he thought, having traveled enough to register curiosity, nothing more. Duluth and Superior were port towns, and they saw all kinds of people, especially in the summertime. Sailors weren't the only people who encountered visitors from other nations around the world.

"I'm Dean," he said, "You're not from around here, right?"

Castiel smiled and shook his head.

"Well, you've got great timing; how often do we get to see the northern lights in the summer, right?"

The other man smiled softly.

_That time before, it had been so dark. So dark they didn't recognise the darkness._

_And in the dark they believed an angel had been sent to them, because it was all they could believe. They put their faith in the shadow in the darkness, the long and soft feathers that wrapped around them as they slept, their guardian angel. They believed so fervently that sometimes it was like warmth, in the cold darkness, and he had known peace._

_**He cannot love you. He is only human. Humans are limited, and you are a man. Or so he believes you to be, and so he believes he cannot love you. Humans cannot love as angels do.** _

_But I love him, brother. I remember the way his hand was formed in childhood; I was there for the first beat of his heart. I did not expect to love him this way but I do; all-consuming and endless._

_**And this is why he can never be with you, never make you happy: he cannot know all of you as you know all of him.** _

_And yet I would be satisfied, with this weak and human love, if he could love me._

_And Castiel remembered._

_Dancing across the black tiles, the stars reflected there, as though they moved across the universe together. He lifted black wings and thought, this is the way I can show him the stars._


	3. Falling

**THE DAY BEFORE**

The light threading through the tall windows in the loft was weak. The moonlight barely made itself known behind the clouds on this particular night.

The man sat on the one bare mattress in the room. The bed was messy, with only a single blanket and pillow. It was clear that he was accustomed to Spartan living arrangements.

The man himself was muscular, handsome in an ancient way, as if he had accompanied the Greeks during the Trojan War, or the Romans at the height of the Empire. He wore only drawstring sweatpants, his feet were bare, and his piercing blue eyes had seen far more than any human's.

He was not human.

Wings, or the memory of wings, extended out and above his back, arching as they stretched the muscle and tendon that was no longer there. Skeletal, they cast dim shadows across the wooden floor of his empty apartment.

_How I fell_ , he thought.

_I fell for him. So long ago, of course no one alive today would remember, and of course, he never knew. These broken wings, beloved, they were for you. Alone across the centuries, now, I have missed you, fellow warrior, love and light. You never knew, did you, how long I had been a soldier, what it meant when I whispered I loved you into the desert night._

_These broken wings are for you, always for you. You were so strong, quiet, angry at the world, it hadn't treated you well, until I came along and unraveled you. You said, always, that you didn't deserve the kind of magic that brought me to you._

_If you only knew, my love, what magic I gave up for you._

_If I only knew what magic could bring me back to you._

_If you only knew, fellow warrior, how I never regretted my choice._

_Alone, it was worth it._

_I would do it again for you, beloved, to see that light in your eyes and your soul._

_You shone, a small sun in your heart, your soul a breathless beauty you didn't recognize._

_I miss you, friend and lover, more than you can ever know. To go home again would be to see you, but I gave up that right when I chose you above all things._

The angel sighed, his head down. Heaven was, as always, far away; his beloved, the same distance. He had been so reckless, in his youth; to choose human love, to fall. If he had been patient, he could have joined his lover in Heaven afterwards, but that meant never having known his touch, the soft smile in the morning, the laughter that meant _I am yours and you are mine_ , and he never did have much patience.

In the weak moonlight of the night bleeding through the loft, not for the first time, the angel shed tears for a love long dead, and wondered why his existence on this plane had been prolonged in this way. After his fall, he was still immortal, and that had been the hardest part of all.

He stood up and opened the door of the fridge, standing in the light and shadow.

There was someone behind him.

He knew this without turning around, and stared into the depths of the refrigerator as if it might tell him who it was. He took a wild guess.

"Aeon," he said without turning.

There was a _hmph_ from behind him.

"You always did have a sixth sense about these things," said Aeon, "Of course, there's no such thing, but centuries as a warrior probably taught you well. Why on earth are you still so muscular? Do you need that kind of strength to open human appliances?"

"What do you want, Aeon?" he asked.

He turned around to see the angel dressed in a trim white suit, lounging against the brick wall.

"Well, seeing as you completely lost your mind several centuries ago, we thought you might be interested in a new assignment."

He straightened up and turned around, looking Aeon full in the face.

"Excuse me?" he asked.

"Well, we aren't exactly the type to believe in reincarnation, but - " Aeon began.

Castiel grasped the angel by the throat and lifted him into the air.

"Spit it out," he said.

"All right!" coughed Aeon, "Let go! He's alive, his spirit returned, he's not a soldier and he doesn't remember anything. He's unhappy and, well, we figured that you'd be the best to be assigned to his care."

Castiel dropped Aeon slowly to the floor. His bright blue eyes glittered, dangerous.

"Are you telling me," he said, "that he's been _alive_ for several years, and _alone_ , and _you never told me_?"

Aeon tried to laugh, but it didn't work very well after his throat had been crushed.

"We thought it'd be best if you didn't know," Aeon said, "let you get over it, let him live a normal..."

Castiel towered over Aeon now, stretching the skeleton wings that were left to him. He had always been of one of the higher warrior orders of angels and therefore had outranked Aeon by a long, long way. His reputation, even among the Host, also didn't hurt.

"Strange, isn't it," he growled, "that his soul would return to this plane after all these years. Strange, that you didn't see fit to tell me. Strange, that suddenly Heaven decides I'm worth something – particularly in the case of the soul I fell for."

Aeon said nothing.

"How old is he?" he asked.

"Around thirty," Aeon replied.

Castiel clenched his jaw against a variety of curse words that wouldn't have improved matters.

"He's a deckhand, on a break for the summer in a town up north," said Aeon, "Even though he's not a soldier, I guess he still likes to work with his hands."

"Who is assigned to him?" he asked, "That's the first person you need to be looking to who clearly hasn't done his job."

Aeon said something, but it was so soft that he didn't hear it.

"Say that again?" he asked.

"No one," Aeon said, "No one is assigned to him. He grew up alone."

"Are you telling me, Aeon," Castiel growled, "that in all these years, he hasn't had a guardian? You let him grow up utterly alone, unlike any other human on this plane? No human has ever experienced that kind of suffering, no wonder he's unhappy!"

Aeon cleared his throat.

"After what happened last time..." he began.

"Where is he?" Castiel demanded, leaning in close.


	4. Smoke

Dean hit the end of his new cigarette packet in a rhythm against his palm, packing the tobacco tightly. He peeled the plastic away from the box and slid a cigarette out of the pack as he left the Last Place on Earth, a local head shop, and walked in the direction of the Urban Ground. The Ground was a coffeeshop popular with the goth and alternative crowd. Dean wasn't goth or anything remotely identifiable – he was primarily identified by what he wasn't, and what he wasn't, was popular. He got on with the punks but the goths had a tendency towards the cheerleader/jock mentality and were exclusionary.

He pushed the door open and added his own cigarette smoke to the cloud that pervaded the room. To the left was a raised platform with tables and chairs that faced the large windows. To the right was the register. Ahead of him was the _goth table_ and best avoided.

"Hey, Junky," he nodded at the tall man behind the counter. Junky didn't do drugs; he resented his nickname, but nobody had called him anything but Junky for years now.

"What can I get for you, Dean?" asked Junky.

"Hot chocolate I guess," he replied. Junky went to make his drink and Dean stared up at the ceiling. The place was haphazard, painted in black, with a hard floor that had seen many cigarettes and spilled drinks. Above it all was a balcony with some sofas and privacy, but most people spent the entire day in the main room of the Urban Ground, waiting and watching for their friends to arrive.

Dean stared at the ceiling as he thought of the man he had met the night before. A vision of his profile, stark against the blue and black of his hair, flashed briefly in front of him. He took a long drag off his cigarette and blew the smoke up towards the rafters. Vaguely he hoped that he'd see him again, but he wasn't even certain who Castiel's friends were or whether they were the type of people to come to the coffeeshop.

Junky handed him the chocolate milk and Dean went to sit down. There was really no need for anyone to call a friend before going to the Ground, because everyone showed up there eventually.

Dean blushed a little. He wasn't sure why, when he turned at the sound of the bell on the door, his hope he'd see Castiel again beat a rapid tattoo in his heart.

It was his friend Meg. She was a punk, her pretty face accented with her piercings and the heavy makeup around her eyes. She wore so much leather and chainwork he often asked her if it took her an hour just to get dressed.

She grinned at him and waved, going to the counter to get tea. She turned around after Junky had made it, her fingers held close together, long fingernails with black nail polish curled towards the black and white striped armlets she wore as she lit a cigarette and grinned through the smoke, heading up the stairs and throwing herself into the chair across from him.

"You would not believe the night we had," she said, "the Bell was totally packed and Jeannie threw up in the beer cooler."

A smile softly crossed Dean's face. Meg leaned back and studied him, pulling on her cigarette for so long he wondered when she'd come up for air.

"What's with you?" she finally breathed out, "You seem..."

"What?" Dean asked.

She pointed with her cigarette.

"Fuckin' distracted, is what," she said, "What's the news. Spill."

Dean looked down at the table and Meg shouted a laugh.

"All right," she said, "Who'd you meet?"

"Do you know a guy called Castiel?" asked Dean.

"What, that foreign kid?" she asked. Her eyes narrowed. "Thought you were straight."

Dean shrugged.

"Thought so too," he said.

"I don't know the kid," she said, "but I've seen him around. Quiet."

"Yeah," Dean said.

"Oh my God," Meg said, "You're blushing. This is fuckin' serious."

"C'mon," Dean said, "I don't know, dude. We only met once."

"I can ask around," Meg said.

"No, don't," said Dean, "I want to be sure."

And the bell jangled, and there he was, striding into the smoke like something out of a fantasy film, the angry-looking boy with the ripped jeans and the streak of bright blue hair against jet black. He stood at the counter and gave his order to Junky, who went to fill it.

"Now's your chance," said Meg, "Hey, Castiel!"

The young man turned, and saw Dean. The clouds in his expression seemed to part, and the look on his face softened.

"Meg, no," said Dean, putting his face in his hand.

"Don't start that now," she said, "He's never going to like you if you do that."

Castiel received his drink, then walked to their table and sat down with them. He frowned and sucked at the straw in his drink as if it had personally offended him.

"How are you?" asked Dean, and Castiel darted a look at him.

He smiled slightly, tilting his head.

"I am...well," he considered, in his strange, stilted way of talking.

Meg's brows drew together. She was more than punk-pretty; she had been the homecoming queen, once upon a time. Apparently it didn't sit well with her.

"What's that?" she asked, pointing at the ripped jeans Castiel was wearing.

"Poetry," Castiel barely muttered into his drink.

"You write poetry...on your jeans?" asked Dean.

Castiel's head snapped up so quickly and his eyes bore into Dean's so brightly that he nearly burned himself on his cigarette.

"And on every available surface," he said, "I don't always have paper, but I always have a pen."

Dean leaned over and looked at the jeans more closely. The words were scribbled in a language he could not identify.

"Is that...your language?" he asked.

"Yes," said Castiel. He drank his soda and didn't seem inclined to explain further.

"Will you read us one of your poems?" asked Meg, leaning in.

"No," said Castiel.

"Aww, c'mon!" she teased, but Castiel had lapsed into sullen silence.

***

_Oh, Dean. I have watched you for so many years. I have loved you and you can never know._

_This poetry, these words, in the ancient text of my people._

_It has all been about you. All of it. Every word, since you appeared in the world._

_I did not know, til you, what it meant to love._


	5. Home

_And so you returned my wings to me, once I agreed to help him._

_For centuries, they were nothing more than ash and bone._

_Why do this now? Surely there must be some reason._

_My crime has not changed in all these years. I am unrepentant._

_Why give me back my wings?_

***

Dean rolled down the window and leaned his elbow on the door as he drove up Skyline Parkway one-handed. There was nothing more relaxing than driving up and nearly over Duluth; from up here, he felt like he was flying. 

The soft rumble of his car, a restored 1967 Impala, was his constant companion. His dad had taught him how to rebuild her when he was sixteen. Dean had never looked at another car since. He was a faithful man. The only time he didn't drive her was during the deep winter, which would have been damaging, not to mention the problems inherent in driving a classic car in a city that was nearly vertical and also covered in ice, which was just a heart attack waiting to happen.

Summer, though, was a time when he and Baby could be together, just like it was meant to be.

He cranked up the stereo and settled back into the seat, never getting tired of the view over the harbor and the ships coming and going. He'd usually be out there right now, aboard one of the ore boats; knowing he was on vacation made the warm, lazy afternoon feel even better.

He went through the mess of traffic insanity that was Seven Corners and up above the West End, where he was renting a little house. It wasn't much to look at, but it was warm in the winter and the view was incredible. Duluth was one of the few places it was almost guaranteed you'd get a water view; even though Lake Superior wasn't the ocean, it was easy to forget, especially for a deckhand who had worked on those waters.

Dean pulled up the gravel driveway to the side of the house and parked the car.

"Thanks, Baby," he said, patting her dash. He reached back and grabbed his grocery bags and pushed the door open.

His house was small and red, with an outdoor staircase. There was a fairly large yard that sloped downwards into a grove of pine trees. The house had a screened-in front porch that wasn't much used in the winter, but saw quite a lot of use during the warm summer months. 

He went up the stairs and opened the screen door, which banged shut behind him. He opened the inner door and walked inside.

A soft _miaow_ greeted him as Zeus, his black cat, twisted around his ankles.

"Hey, sweetheart," Dean said. "Miss me?"

He took out the new bag of cat food and poured some out into a silver bowl for her.

The house itself was cozy. The kitchen had an island but was otherwise open to the living room, and the ceilings were high, with exposed wooden beams. There was an enormous window facing the lake and the screened-in porch; almost a wrap-around view. Behind his ratty sofa was the door to his bedroom, and the bathroom door was down the hall by the kitchen. The place wasn't much more than a glorified cabin, but it was enough for him.

He grabbed a beer and sat down on the sofa. Zeus hopped up to sit on his lap and purr. He stroked the cat's fur as he took a drink and sighed, enjoying the cool taste; he watched as the sun set behind his house, turning the lake a purple-blue. There was a lot to be said for taking a vacation, he thought, and started to drift off.

_What kind of name is Castiel?_ , his mind asked, without anything like permission. _You didn't even ask what country he's from._

Dean ignored the thought and pushed his beer onto the coffee table. He stretched out on the couch, where he fell asleep with the cat in his lap, and dreamed of butterfly wings.


	6. Night

Later that night, Dean was restless. He drove down to the parking lot outside Jubilee and started wandering aimlessly, smoking and thinking of the strange young man he couldn’t seem to get out of his thoughts. Castiel was grumpy to the point of being extremely rude and Dean thought it was probably for the best that he hadn’t seemed inclined to talk to Meg. Still, she was one of Dean's closest friends, and that didn’t make for much of a relationship.

He found himself by the water again, just off Leif Erikson Park. They were breaking ground for a Rose Garden, they had said, to help beautify the city. Dean thought the city was already beautiful enough; run-down and gritty, it was a haven for sailors and prostitutes, but it was home. He had seen a few hotels going up in the warehouse district called Canal Park, where some of the original brothels were. Dean hoped that Duluth retained its darkness and didn’t try to reinvent itself as some kind of Minnesotan version of an East Coast tourist town.

Dean walked down by the lake, smoking, as the summer mist began to gather at his feet. On very warm nights, mist often rolled in from the lake. He realized that he was near the old white bandshell, which was usually empty. He looked toward the white pavilion and was startled to see Castiel sitting there, leaning back on his hands and staring up at the stars.

Dean nearly tripped over his own feet in his rush to get there. He tried for nonchalance.

“Hey, Cas,” he said softly. The other man glared over at him suddenly, and Dean saw the same softness in his eyes when he recognized who was speaking.

As if he were still looking at the stars.

“Hi,” Castiel said, his voice small and strange. He looked back up at the sky.

“Beautiful night,” said Dean, feeling left-footed and awkward.

Castiel looked over at him, considering this, and then nodded slowly.

“Are you okay?” asked Dean.

Castiel shook his head slowly.

“I believe you would call it…” he said, “homesickness.”

“Oh,” said Dean, “you miss your family?”

Castiel stared up into the sky.

“Yes,” he said, “my brothers and sisters especially.”

He stared at Dean.

"You called me Cas," he said.

Dean could feel a blush threatening to overtake his features. He took out a cigarette and lit it just to have something to do with his hands.

"I, uh, yeah," Dean said brilliantly. "We, uh, like to hand out nicknames around here like candy for people we like."

Castiel raised an eyebrow at that. Dean was caught and pinned in that calm blue gaze, so much like a quiet day on the water when the lake decided she preferred the cradle to the grave.

“I didn’t mean to come here,” Castiel confessed. “I was sent.”

Dean grinned crookedly.

“I hope it’s all right anyway,” he said.

“Some aspects,” agreed Castiel.

"Where are you from?" Dean asked, mentally kicking himself for not asking before.

"A long way away," said Castiel. Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Hey, c'mon now," said Dean. "Not all Americans are idiots about geography, you know."

"I know," Castiel said. Dean waited for something more, but he was disappointed.

"Okay, be mysterious," he teased.

Castiel just nodded gravely. 

Dean worked up some courage and wished he had alcohol to smooth the way, but he was worryingly sober.

“Um,” said Dean, “I, um, would you like my phone number? Do you want to go to Jim’s tomorrow or something?”

“Who’s Jim?” asked Castiel, immediately suspicious.

Dean laughed.

“Jim’s Hamburgers,” he said, “it’s a greasy spoon joint up the hill, me and Meg and some of our friends go there sometimes.”

“I…don’t have a phone yet,” said Castiel, “I only just arrived. But yes, I’d like to go to Jim’s with you.”

"Great. Then. It's a date," said Dean, and then immediately walked it back, "Or. It. You know what I mean."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Dean."

***

Betty grinned and waved as Dean walked through the glass door of Jim’s Hamburgers up on 4th street. The old regulars nodded at him, in their greasy ball caps and the flannel they wore over their tshirts even in midsummer. Somehow Jim’s had become a haven for the local punk scene as well as the usual suspects that would eat at this type of diner. The place was dingy and the cooktop didn’t look as if it had ever been washed, but they made the best food in town and it cost almost nothing. This worked out well for the people of Duluth, who had nothing much to pay.

Dean scootched into a booth across from Meg, who was already eating her lunch with a great deal of enthusiasm.

“Pepsi and eggs?” he asked, lighting a smoke. “That’s disgusting.”

“Don’t knock it til you tried it,” said Meg, mopping up the eggs with buttery toast and sucking down the Pepsi with gusto.

“Hi Kevin!” she added, and Dean turned to see his friend Kevin walk in. Kevin was Asian and had a mohawk that was about a foot tall. He was the best bass player in the region.

Kevin slid in next to Meg and nodded at Dean.

“You boys going to order anything?” called Betty.

“Yeah, yeah,” called Kevin, “Give us a minute, jeez.”

“Alright,” she said.

“So,” grinned Meg around a mouthful of toast, “seen your new friend anytime lately?”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck.

"Aw, c'mon, Meg," he said, embarrassed.

"You did!" she crowed. "When's the wedding?"

"Shut up," Dean said, his cheeks pinking.

"Well, did you?" Meg insisted.

“Actually,” Dean said, “I invited him here.”

“New friend?” asked Kevin, “Meaning –”

“Meaning our Dean’s got a crush,” she said.

“Meg,” he sighed.

“What?” she said, “I haven’t been laid in weeks and I need to live vicariously. I love your love.”

Dean rolled his eyes. The door opened. Everyone looked to see who had entered, and few recognized the tall young man with the bright blue in his hair.

Castiel saw Dean, and favored him with a dazzling smile.

Both Kevin and Meg turned back to Dean with shiteating grins on their faces. Dean's awestruck expression hadn't been missed.

He slouched down in his seat.

"Shut up," Dean said again, but there was no force behind it.


	7. Music

"So, where are you from, Castiel?" asked Meg, leaning back with a cigarette between her teeth and grinning. She blew smoke out and tapped her cigarette in the ashtray.

"It's - a small place," Castiel said. "You wouldn't know it."

"What's with the cloak and dagger?" asked Kevin. "We ain't gonna judge you, we meet sailors from all over the world here."

"Dean's a sailor," said Meg, leering at them. Castiel turned to Dean.

"You are?" he asked.

"Wow," said Meg. "Hearts and flowers. You better propose, Winchester."

Castiel looked away from Dean as if he'd been burned.

"Don't be an asshole, Meg," said Dean. "If Cas doesn't want to tell us, he doesn't. He'll come around."

"Don't you think it's a little weird?" asked Meg. Cas stood abruptly.

"I'm going to place my order," he said, and turned away.

Dean glared at Meg. 

"What?" she asked. "You don't think it's suspicious? Like, what the hell, man, it doesn't matter where he's from."

"If it doesn't matter, then why are you giving him so much grief over it?" Dean whispered back.

"All right, all right," Meg relented. "But you find out, you tell me, promise?"

Dean rolled his eyes.

"Sure," he said. "Come on, Kevin, I think Betty's gonna murder us if we don't order, too."

Kevin nodded and went to the counter with Dean. Cas looked up to see them both standing behind him, and Dean tried for an easy smile. Castiel smiled back, hesitant, but with warmth in his bright blue eyes.

Like Superior, he kept thinking.

"Dean?" 

He started, and saw Betty staring at him, tapping her pen against her notepad.

"Huh?" Dean said.

"Whaddaya want, sweetheart?" asked Betty. "You've been standin' here with the moon in your eyes for the last three minutes."

"Sorry, Betty," he blushed. "Uh. Cheeseburger and fries, ketchup and mustard."

"No problem, hon," she said. "Coming right up."

Dean went to sit down with his friends, and was relieved to hear that the conversation had changed. He had to admit that he did think it was strange, how cagey Castiel seemed to be about his home country. He also wasn't certain why Cas seemed to have a hold on him that no one else ever had, even though they'd only spoken a few times. He felt like he was under a spell or something, and wondered if love at first sight was a real thing. Despite the world being dangerous for anyone who wasn't straight, he'd never thought much about it himself; he was already a part of the alternative crowd and sexuality in that context had always been somewhat fluid. Still, he'd been with a lot of women before and suddenly this guy shows up in his life like a time bomb. 

Dean's still waiting for the explosion. 

But he's always been just a little stupid and in love with a good adventure.

Which is probably why, his mouth full of cheeseburger, ketchup and mustard, he says what he says a little while later.

"Hey Cas," he began.

"Ew, chew with your mouth closed," said Meg, wrinkling her nose.

"You talk about the most disgusting shit and you can't handle me eating with my mouth open?" asked Dean, incredulous.

"I have manners, Dean," she said. He glared at her, but obediently shut his mouth and finished chewing. He swallowed, and took a swig of Meg's Pepsi in revenge.

"Hey!" she said.

"Cas," he said again.

"Yes, Dean?" Cas asked. He was eating his french fries daintily, as if he didn't want the salt on his fingers but couldn't figure out a way to keep that from happening.

"Do you wanna come over tonight and listen to music?" he asked. "Play records, and - uh, you know. Introduce each other to bands...and stuff."

Cas smiled at Dean. It was like the sun had come out.

Meg and Kevin shared a knowing look.

"You were right," Kevin said. Meg nodded sagely.

"I'd love to, Dean," said Cas, ignoring the others. 

"Great," said Dean, shooting a murderous look at Meg, who grinned and gave him a little wave.

"What time should I pick you up?"

***

Dean wasn’t sure how he got lucky enough to find a house with such a perfect view of Lake Superior. Nighttime was just as breathtaking as the day. His balcony looked out onto Duluth, to the Aerial Lift Bridge and Superior beyond it. The twinkling lights were beautiful as Park Point curved into the distance.

Castiel was sitting crosslegged on the Turkish rug Dean had also somehow lucked into. Cas was looking curiously at his record collection and the album he’d started playing.

“They're scratchy now, but I stand by it,” said Dean, “I always loved records. When I was a kid my parents had this huge collection. Some of these belonged to them, but it’s how I first fell in love with music.”

Castiel stared at him then, blinking slowly.

“Yes,” he murmured, “You love music.”

“Yeah,” Dean replied, “it was – well, it sort of saved my life.”

Dean sat down and leaned against the back of the couch, staring out the open door at the twinkling lights of the city. The Beatles played as he pulled the ashtray towards him and lit a cigarette. He inhaled and blew a cloud of smoke towards the night outside.

“I got into some trouble when I was a kid,” he said, “and when things were real bad I had music. I could escape and no one could catch me. No one could see me.”

Castiel just looked at him.

“You are wrong,” he said. "I see you."

Dean laughed, a little self-conscious.

“Yeah, well,” he said, “you’re probably onto something there, but I certainly felt invisible.”

And that was when Castiel started to sing. 

A deep voice, a scratch and growl, like his records, like a lone man singing in a blues joint, smoke and soul.

_Yesterday_

_All my troubles seemed so far away_

_Now it looks as though they’re here to stay_

_Oh I believe in yesterday._

Dean’s mouth dropped open. He noticed his cigarette had a long ash and he quickly tapped it off. He had never heard anything as beautiful as Castiel’s voice. And not because he was harboring a secret crush, although that helped. Castiel singing was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard.

And he'd never wanted to kiss someone so badly.


	8. Wisconsin Point

The second bonfire of the summer was a huge party on Wisconsin Point. 

Park Point (or Minnesota Point, but nobody called it that) was definitely easier to access, but Wisconsin Point was where the real fun happened. It was a long drive over the bridge and then a longer drive down the road all the way to the end of the beach, but the privacy alone made it worth the trek.

The best bonfires were on Wisconsin Point, since the cops never really bothered to go out there. It was a lot more common to get busted on Park Point, probably because it was easier to get to and there were houses all along the beach. Wisconsin Point was deserted; there was an Anishinaabe graveyard down the road, but the actual point itself was empty. 

Duluth, Minnesota sat across from Superior, Wisconsin, like a smug richer brother. Even then, in the 90s, at Duluth's economic low point, it out-earned Superior in shipping at least.

Superior never much cared; the town's famous Tower Avenue had more bars than anyone could shake a stick at, and the legendary 21st birthday bar crawl there had claimed a few. They still got the T-shirts. Superior was a long, flat town laid out like most of middle America; unlike the grandeur of nearly-vertical Duluth across the lake, Superior never put on airs.

It would be Superior that stood in front of the smoking ban in defiance. It would be Superior that still provided a lifestyle of cameraderie, much like the one those in the 90s knew, once Duluth went at right angles to reality and tried to reinvent its sailors-whores-and-streetfighters backstory into some kind of tourist paradise, where everybody knew what Grandma's used to be but nobody said, and all the character got sucked out of the place, repackaged and sold back to tourists as a hipster $8 glass of wine that was too cool to be served in a wine glass and pushed out all the characters that made the place even remotely interesting.

All of that was in the future, for Duluth at least.

Superior, however, would stay humble; just like in the 90s, it still had all the fun.

Wisconsin Point was busy that night, and Dean had to search to find the bonfire his friends were at. People weren't as cautious out here. The sheer noise alone would have alerted the police, if they cared much.

Dean finally found the people he was looking for, and encountered some friends of his, Steve and Angela, sitting near the fire.

“I can’t believe nobody’s come out to bust us yet,” said Angela, taking a long drink of her beer.

“This is the Wild West, man,” said Steve, “Welcome to Wisconsin.”

Dean grinned at them, his own beer in hand, and went to sit by the water. He loved his friends and the sheer abandon of it all, but he liked being near the lake more. 

He’d known he was going to be a deckhand since he was small; his love affair with the water and the night sky started young. He couldn’t remember a time he hadn’t been captivated by the lake with the soul of an ocean, deadly one moment and serene the next. Everyone who lived in the Twin Ports had a healthy respect for the lake. Sailors took that respect and turned it into a near-worship. The Anchor Bar, a sailors’ watering hole near the docks in Superior, was a strange testament to the men and women who spent their lives on the wild lake.

Tonight the lake was like glass, as far as he could see. He drank his beer and marveled at the beauty of the place, even with the loud music and the people all around him. 

Eventually he sensed that he was not alone, and that someone was standing behind him.

“I miss the northern lights,” said Dean, to whoever was there.

There was a huffed laugh.

“You like them?” asked Castiel softly, hesitant.

“Like them?” asked Dean, “Hell, I’ve always known I was going to be a lifer around here, just so I could see them in the summer. I like it when the water’s still like this, and they reflect in the lake.”

Dean shook his head and laughed, looking over his shoulder at Castiel. He indicated the space beside him, and Castiel sat down.

“Sorry,” Dean murmured, “I sound like an idiot.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” said Castiel, and put his hand in Dean’s.

Dean stared at their interlocked hands, his heart beating quickly. _Should I tell him I’m not gay? I’m not interested?_

_I’m not interested, am I?_

While Dean was having this slight panic, Angela came and plopped down in the sand beside them.

“What the fuck is up,” she said mildly, and took a hit from her pot pipe.

“Dean was talking about the northern lights,” said Castiel, and Dean felt himself blushing for no reason he could ascertain.

“Oh yeah,” she said in a strangled voice as she held the smoke in, “They’re awesome. Haven’t seen them since the start of the summer. Weird.”

Castiel preened.

She exhaled a cloud of smoke, and continued speaking in her regular voice.

“We all used to come down here, remember that?” said Angela, “Stoned out of our minds and you fucked Ashley in the back seat of her Buick.”

Angela shook her head.

“Those were the days,” she said, and laughed.

Dean hazarded a look at Castiel, who was staring at Angela as if she had just kicked his puppy.

“I should go,” said Castiel, standing up and brushing the sand off himself.

“Cas, wait –” said Dean, desperate to stop him and unsure why.

“No, it’s fine,” said Castiel, ice creeping into his voice, “I have to get up early tomorrow anyway. Have fun.”

Dean sighed as he watched Castiel retreat into the darkness and he glared at Angela.

“You’re an asshole,” he said, and ran after his friend.

Angela stared after them.

“What’d I do?” she called. Then she shrugged, packed the bowl tightly, and clicked her lighter.

***

Dean caught up to him at the edge of the sand, where cars were parked here and there along the road, hidden in the trees.

"Cas," he said, a little out of breath. "What's wrong?"

Castiel shook his head.

"It's nothing, Dean," he said. "That was rude of me. I apologize."

"Come back to the fire?" he asked.

"I don't..." Castiel sighed. "I'm not in the mood tonight."

"Well, how about," Dean searched for something, mentally kicking himself for looking so desperate, "I buy you coffee at Le Petit?"

Castiel looked at him, puzzled.

"It's the coffeeshop over here," Dean explained. "Like the Ground. But nobody's gonna be there if they're all here. Besides, I - uh. I'd like to get to know you better."

Castiel seemed to think about this for a while. Then he relented.

"Fine," he said.

"Your car or mine?" asked Dean.

"I don't have a car," said Castiel.

"How'd you get down here?" Dean asked.

"I hitched a ride with some people," he said. "I just wasn't prepared for how I was going to feel."

"All right, then it's my car," said Dean. "She's the most beautiful car in the area anyway."

Castiel cracked a smile.

"I'm honored to take a ride in her," he said.

"And well you should be," Dean said, beaming, and led Castiel away from the lake.

***

Le Petit was created on the French-Italian model; the walls were red, the chairs were green,and the floor was concrete. It was, much like the Urban Ground, a meeting place; however, the crowd here skewed much younger. Superior was a town that orbited around alcohol, and Le Petit was the last real gathering place for the alternative crowd before they graduated into pub life. The owner frequently lamented this, as he believed an alcohol-free meeting place was worth something, but the general poverty of the clientele of both coffeeshops made their existence precarious indeed.

Dean parked the Impala in the back lot and led Castiel through the large back room with the pool table, and to the front which had an almost Christmas-like cheer to it, given the colors and the decor. They ordered sodas and sat at one of the tables. There were a few people there, but mostly absorbed in books or homework, which was unusual for this coffeeshop as it was for its counterpart across the harbor; going to Le Petit often meant spirited political discussion or laughing with friends. The way both coffeeshops worked, everyone was a part of the whole place and interacted with each other. Nobody stayed a stranger for long.

Dean may not have been one of the popular kids, either in the alternative coffeehouses or in high school, but these places always felt like coming home. You were assured of being recognized and accepted, making these places a haven for people who weren't accepted elsewhere.

For people like Castiel, and Dean was coming to realize, himself, they were the one safe place against the storm; gay men weren't accepted, but in the coffeeshops, they were family.

These thoughts all went through Dean's head, and he wasn't sure how to bring up the hand-holding thing. As Castiel drank his soda, Dean started to wonder if maybe it was normal for men to do that in Castiel's home country; he'd read that European men often kissed and held hands with their friends.

"So, uh, Cas," said Dean, mostly to drown out his own thoughts. "You wanna talk about it?"

"Where I come from," Cas said abruptly. "The northern lights are - important."

"Oh," Dean said. "So you like, what, worship them?"

Cas glared at him. Dean lifted his hands. _Idiot_ , he chastised himself. 

But then Cas collapsed in on himself.

"No," he said. "It's just - bad memories."

" _Oh_ ," said Dean, realization hitting him like a ton of bricks. This, he could understand.

"Like PTSD?" he asked. Cas nodded.

Dean put a hand on Cas's arm. Cas looked up at him, questioning; Dean was lost in the deep blue of his eyes.

"I, uh," said Dean. "I understand what that's like. Maybe not - not the same as you. But I do get it."

Castiel nodded. He put his hand over Dean's. Dean stared at it.

"Was there a war in your country?" he asked, unable to tear his eyes away.

"Yes," said Castiel gravely. "A long and bitter war."

"I'm sorry," said Dean. "Is that why you're here?"

Castiel nodded.

"You're a refugee?" Dean asked, and Castiel nodded again.

His hand was still covering Dean's.

"Look," said Dean, his voice stronger now that he was in territory he understood. "I might not get it - well, not all of it, I've never been to war - but I know plenty about nightmares and a bad past, flashbacks - you name it. If you ever want to talk - well, I'm here."

Castiel just watched him with those wide-open blue eyes and a strange, dreamy smile.

"Thank you, Dean," he said. "And you have the same promise from me. Whatever you are going through, you no longer have to go through it alone. While I may not understand many things here, that is one thing I can promise you. I know how lonely it can be, when you've lived through things no one else can possibly understand."

Dean's hand tightened on Castiel's arm involuntarily.

_His hand is still there._

_So? Your hand is still on his arm._

Dean wondered what he should do to rectify the situation, but found himself unwilling to disengage from the other man's arm.

Castiel, for his part, looked at Dean like he'd never seen anything so beautiful.


	9. Wind and Water

The day dawned bright and hot.

Despite its reputation for terrible winters, the Twin Ports had some of the most humid, beautiful summers anywhere. The lake wasn't the only escape from the heat.

The Deeps had been a favourite of everyone, goth or punk, jock or nerd, throughout Duluth for years. Dean was certain it was deadly, and, well, he wasn’t really a scaredy-cat if he didn’t want to jump off of the top of a high cliff into a tiny and possibly shallow body of water. Most Duluthians had done it, but not him. He didn’t want to risk it. He wasn't a fan of heights, or the short sharp stop at the bottom.

So he sat on a rock, next to the small pool of fresh water, while his friends egged Castiel on. The young man stood at the edge of the cliff, and then seemed to fall forward as if he expected to be caught. Dean stared at his descent with an open mouth. He had never seen anything so graceful or beautiful, as Castiel cut the water apart in a perfect dive. Before he could register that he’d just thought his new friend was beautiful, Castiel surfaced, all rare smiles and dripping with water (which Dean _definitely_ did not notice), pulling himself up onto the rock in front of Dean.

“That was incredible,” said Castiel, “It almost felt like flying.”

Dean did not miss the wistfulness in his voice, and wondered.

***

The basement party was loud and Dean was smiling before the cup of beer was in his hand. He hadn’t really had a summer like this for a few years, since deckhand work was summertime business. Basement parties were one of the best things about Duluth, summer or winter.

This particular basement was crammed full of people, smoke and sweat, and the loud bang of whatever local punk band was providing the music this year.

Dean grinned. God, but it was good to be home.

“Hey! Dean!”

He turned around to see Jeannie, she of beer cooler fame, clearly wasted. She had long ringlet ginger hair and her heavy dark makeup was streaked.

“Hi Jeannie,” he said, “How’re you?”

She leaned against him, breathing booze.

“Good stuff,” she said, “hmmm where is that pretty guy you’ve been hanging around?”

“Castiel?” he asked, then silently cursed himself for relating that name to the word _pretty_ before thinking about it.

“That his name?” she asked, “Weird.”

“He’s foreign,” he explained. She nodded, took a drink of her beer, and wandered off without saying goodbye. Dean shook his head and moved on into the press of the crowd.

Somewhere around the kitchen he ran into Terese, who grinned widely at him and gestured at the kiddie pool at her feet. Someone had dragged it into the apartment and filled it with all kinds of liquid; he could see fruit floating in it.

“Wapatuli?” she offered.

“Not now, not ever,” Dean said, with feeling. Wapatuli was a mix of every alcohol people had thought to bring, beer, whisky, wine, vodka, everything mixed together. Then fruit was added. People would dip their cups in and drink, and eventually eat the fruit. Dean knew better and didn’t need the experience to know it’d be stupid.

“Wise man,” said Terese, “Did you see Jeannie?”

“Yeah, she’s wasted,” said Dean.

“Yeah she is,” Terese agreed, “She just threw up.”

“Ugh,” said Dean, “Not on anything important?”

“Oh no,” said Terese, “She missed the toilet, got the floor.”

“Small favors,” Dean murmured.

“So Dean,” said Terese, with a secret smile, “I hear you’ve been hanging out with that new foreign kid a lot.”

Dean shook his head and buried his face in his cup.

“Why does _everyone_ keep asking me that?” he grumbled.

“All right, grumpy,” Terese teased, “I think everyone’s just curious.”

“About what?” Dean said.

“Well,” she said, “He doesn’t _come_ from anywhere. He doesn’t have a job. He isn’t going to university. Far as anyone can tell, he doesn’t even have an address.”

Dean lowered the cup to look at her. Terese was pretty dependable; something of a hippie, but out of most of the people around Duluth, she had a good head on her shoulders. She was down-to-earth and not given to conspiracy theories.

“So, does he live in a tree or something?” she was saying, “Because that’s not going to work come wintertime.”

Dean’s heart was filled with conflicting emotions. Did Castiel lie to him? Was he homeless?

If so, shouldn’t he help?

He didn’t like the way his heart started to hammer at the thought of inviting Castiel to live with him. Especially if he was being lied to. Dean wondered what Cas was hiding.

“Hey Dean,” Terese was saying, “Earth to Dean.”

“Sorry,” he muttered, “I don’t really know. He hasn’t told me.”

“If he’s in some kind of trouble, we should –“ she began, when the sound of sirens began to permeate the music.

“Get out! Go!” someone was shouting, “Police on the way!

“Shit!” they both whispered to each other at the same time, and then broke into a run.

Dean was laughing as he ran, people falling out of the windows and rolling, running off in all different directions. His joy in the usual cut-and-run from a basement party was short-lived, as he got far enough away to slow to a walk, and his heart was troubled with Terese’s questions and his treacherous feelings for the stranger in their town.

The fug of smoke and alcohol started to clear as he breathed in the fresh night air, now that he was far enough away. He decided it was worth a walk; he had a lot to think about, and he wasn't about to climb into his car in this kind of state. If worse came to worst, he'd sleep it off down on the beach.

***

Dean's rambling walk finally brought him down past Wabasha Adult Bookstore, and he turned down the avenue headed for Carlson’s. There was a parking space down there if you climbed the lamppost up from the Lakewalk, and he’d left his car down there beside the Electric Fetus.

He eyed the lamppost, and then thought better of it, continuing his walk down to the shoreline.

Not many people went down this way, so he was fairly certain of having it to himself.

However, this time, he was not alone.

Castiel was standing on the rock, facing toward the lake. He did not turn when Dean approached.

"Cas?" Dean hazarded. "What are you doing here?"

And the man turned, like one possessed. Dean stumbled backwards, and nearly fell.

Castiel was there to catch him.

He was not the same. The shy, awkward young man was replaced by something different and sure.

Thunder made itself known, somewhere across the lake. Summer thunderstorms in Duluth were common, and made the air hang heavy and sure, a question mark before the break.

Castiel stared Dean down.

“Sounds like a storm is coming,” said Dean, a little nervously in the face of Castiel’s stare.

_I am a warrior. I have turned cities to salt. There is lightning and fury within me, centuries in my touch. And you will bow before me, Dean, so I may worship you._

“When you play those songs for me,” said Castiel, apropos of nothing, “I see the music.”

“You can’t see music,” said Dean.

“I can,” said Castiel. His quick smile spiked Dean's heart.

He could get drunk on the way Castiel made him feel.

Dean's heart beat fast, as he reached out a hand and threaded his fingers with Castiel’s. Castiel stared down at their joined hands. He turned towards the dark sky with its stars, and the lake spread out beneath them. He said nothing, and then leaned his head against Dean’s shoulder.

_Love. Love. This is love._

It wasn’t fireworks or fury. It was simple and quiet, soft breath of summer, and Dean was everything and nothing inside, so afraid of the intensity, so afraid of what this meant, so afraid of who he was now, and how Castiel had taken his life and his reality and warped everything he thought he knew.

And Castiel was watching him, not leaning against his shoulder anymore, watching him with those piercing dark blue eyes that could become his forever if he were lucky enough.

And that pale and perfect skin, those lips, he was leaning in, and touched Dean’s lips with his own, and pulled back with a startled expression.

“Is it – was that – is this okay?” asked Castiel, his expression open, and startled, and – scared?

_Terrified. Like me, he’s terrified._

Dean reached out a hand and pulled Castiel close, kissing him deeply and then gathering him up in his arms. The breaths he took, when he had a chance, had a strange keening sound to them, a sound he would never admit had come from him.

Breathless now, he pulled back, and studied Castiel’s face. The other man had a sleepy, dream-struck look on his face, as if he didn’t know where he was, or who he was, in a gentle world of bliss.

“Castiel,” Dean whispered, his hands in that jet-black hair, finally, finally; he cupped the other man’s face, gentle as not to startle him.

Castiel blinked, slowly, and stared up at Dean. He thought he had never seen anything so beautiful.

Castiel smiled, a long and slow progression, until recognition flickered in his eyes.

“Dean,” he breathed, and touched his friend’s cheek.

“You’re with me?” asked Dean, wanting to make sure.

Castiel nodded.

“Dean,” he said again, “I have always been yours.”

There was nothing more to do than kiss again, and time held no meaning then, underneath the summer stars. For a brief and strange moment, Dean wondered why they hadn’t seen the northern lights since the night he’d met Castiel on the beach. Then his friend pulled him down, drowning in the sky and the stars, and it was forgotten.


	10. Storm

_Castiel sensed him before he heard him._

_"What do you want, Aeon?" he asked._

_"Nice way to greet an old friend, Castiel," Aeon sniffed, "Blue hair? I see you're appealing to his tastes. Giving yourself the best possible chance, is it?"_

_"Leave me alone," said Castiel._

_Aeon went and sat down in a ratty old chair that formed part of what Castiel called the living room._

_"I suppose he wouldn't believe your real name," said Aeon, "Angel of sorrows, watcher of worlds, doesn't really roll off the tongue does it? Mind you, neither does Castiel in a town that shouldn't even exist, a blight on the planet."_

_"Duluth's all right," Castiel said._

_Aeon laughed._

_"This coming from a being that saw Constantinople under Justinian? Paris at the turn of the century?" Aeon said, "Rome at the height of the empire? Duluth's all right, is it? And you'd spend what was left of this mortal's life here, with him, in this freezing cesspool?"_

_Castiel turned and threw his hand out toward Aeon, tired of his jabs. Aeon was thrown out of the chair. He hit the wall, stood up, and laughed, and then sat on it again._

_"Really, though," said Aeon, "What will happen if he rejects you?"_

_"It's a chance I have to take," said Castiel._

_"Is it?" asked Aeon, "It was enough that you were banished from heaven. You'd fall all the way to earth for the same soul? Even if it never recognizes you or the love you shared again? The earth is cold and hard, my brother, and the rains come. Old age will wither you, disease and pain. You've got a chance to return to heaven. What if he says no? What if all of this is for nothing?"_

_Castiel's mouth set._

_"You wouldn't understand, Aeon," he said, "You've never loved."_

_"That's not true," he said, "I love you, and the rest of our family. I don't want to see you in pain and be unable to do anything about it."_

_"Angels have dominion over the earth," said Castiel, "You can visit me if I'm human."_

_"Yes, but you won't know I'm there," Aeon said, "and if you're suffering, I won't be able to end it. So, Castiel, have you considered what you are going to do if this soul rejects you?"_

_"I don't know," he murmured, "all I know is that I must follow this to its eventual conclusion."_

_"Even if it means your destruction?" asked Aeon, his mouth drawn into a frown._

_Castiel nodded. It was as if he had no choice, pulled along by some savage power stronger than his own._

_Aeon shook his head._

_"I pity you, Castiel," he said, "and I am very sorry."_

_Castiel looked out at the clouds, pink and purple in the summer sky as the sun set over the city._

_When he turned around again, he was alone._

***

They broke apart, there on the beach, and Castiel panted with his desire for the man in front of him. Dean just stared, wide-eyed and lost, as Castiel engulfed him again, an unrelenting force like the waters of the lake, and Dean was drowning.

Castiel's breath ghosted across the other man’s upper back.

“In ancient Greece, they say the men knew each other,” he murmured, kissing the top of his spine, “and Alexander the Great was ruled by Hephastion’s thighs. _Oh, my song of songs, how I have waited for this.”_

Dean’s eyes closed, he sighed and relaxed into his arms.

“What is this, Greece, Alexander,” he said, “you talk like something out of history, like you’ve known me before.”

“My light, my love,” said the other man quietly, “I have, I have waited for you.”

Castiel kissed his neck, enfolding him tightly, and Dean moaned in response.

Suddenly, violently, he was pushed away. 

Blinking at the change in tone, he stared at his friend.

“I’m not like you,” hissed Dean, “I don’t want this. Stay away from me.”

And Dean, whose heart and mind were a whirlwind of emotions, ran.

Castiel stood, dejected, at the edge of the water, the heart that thought it had a chance to mend breaking all over again.

***

Dean was blind.

He ran as fast as he could, up the streets, away from Castiel and the things his friend made him feel. As he ran, he could hear those words echo in his head: I don’t want this! I’m not like you!

And other words, swiftly coming up behind them: Hephastion’s thighs, ancient Greece…oh, my song of songs, how I have waited –

His treacherous mind spoke to him then, _are you sure you don’t want this?_

And he went as fast as he could, trying to drown them out.

***

Dean threw himself into the Impala and shut the door. He put his head against the steering wheel and sighed.

He pulled out of the parking space and threw the car into gear. As he reached Superior Street, the storm that had been calling out a warning broke, rain pouring in a torrent.

He remembered what Terese had said about Castiel maybe not having a home.

"Shit, Cas," he said, and turned toward the little beach. Either way, he couldn't leave him out there.

Dean was startled to see that Castiel was standing exactly where he'd left him twenty minutes ago, stock-still like he had nowhere else to go, and Dean's heart gave a painful stab. Guilty and ashamed, Dean got out of the car.

"Cas!" he called. The young man turned, and even in the lighting, he looked a storm himself.

"Will you get in the car?" he asked. "You're gonna catch your death."

This seemed to unlock Castiel, who started to move. Eventually he sat down in the car, soaking wet. Dean made a few grumbling noises about water inside his Baby, but started the car.

Castiel stared straight ahead, as if he were afraid to look at Dean.

"That's it," said Dean. "You're coming home with me."

***

Dean led Castiel up the stairs to his house, and pushed the door open. Zeus ran over and immediately started purring, rubbing against his legs.

"Hey there sweetheart, sorry I've been gone so long," said Dean, picking her up and setting her on the counter. "I'll get you some food in a minute."

Dean went into his bedroom and brought out a change of clothes.

"Bathroom's in there," he said gruffly. "Get out of those wet clothes and come back out here. You're staying the night."

Castiel looked like he was going to argue.

"No way," said Dean. "You're not going out in that tonight."

Wordlessly, Castiel went to get changed.

***

On Castiel's return, he was more than happy to find a fire in the fireplace, and the view out over the lake impressive, even in the darkness and rain.

He sat down next to Dean, unsure of what to do, or what was expected of him.

And Dean gave him one look, a strange expression he couldn't read, and he suddenly recognized it as him gathering his courage because he crawled over Castiel and covered him with his body, capturing his lips in a long, deep kiss.

"Dean?" gasped Castiel, shocked.

"Shh," he said. "I just - please?"

Castiel nodded eagerly, wrapping his arms around Dean and kissing back with enthusiasm. The touch of his white t-shirt beneath the pads of his fingers, the beautiful friction of their cocks against each other in their boxers, the way the muscles in Dean's stomach tightened as he thrust against Castiel lazily.

There was nothing Castiel wanted more. Sheer, unadulterated bliss, and a love he thought long lost forever, as he gripped Dean tightly and wrapped his legs around the other man, shuddering through the first orgasm he'd had in a long time. Dean followed suit a moment later, with a long, satisfied moan.

Breathless, Dean kept his head down, and his lips ghosting against Castiel's chest. Castiel could feel the damp heat of him trying to get his breathing under control. Castiel just stared up at the ceiling, bright blue eyes staring and foolish with what had just happened between them.

It was Dean who moved first. He huffed a laugh against Castiel's chest.

"That was quick," he said. 

"I'm sorry," Castiel mumbled.

"No, I mean-" Dean chuckled. "I changed my mind pretty fast. Moved pretty fast too, but that's the way it is in Minnesota. You know, three month mating season before we gotta barricade ourselves inside against the weather."

Then Dean looked up at him, mischief in his green eyes. It melted away like snow in the new spring when he saw the unabashed love in Castiel's expression.

"I'm sorry, for what I did," Dean said. "That wasn't cool. I just...you make me feel a lot of things, man. I wasn't ready for how much you make me feel."

"And you're ready now?" asked Castiel. Dean favored him with a brilliant smile, and indicated their bodies, still tightly wound together.

"I think so," he said. "Cas, you make me...I don't know. Like it's too big for words. Epic."

Castiel nodded.

"Me too," he agreed. Dean moved a bit, and then made a face.

"Should we get cleaned up?" he offered.

***

Castiel thought for certain he was dreaming.

Dean washed him in the shower with such attentive kindness, absorbed entirely with mapping his body. Castiel wanted to try again, but Dean had smiled and kissed his nose, saying maybe tomorrow, he was beat.

He walked with a sense of unreality to Dean's bedroom, and climbed into Dean's bed, where he was wrapped in the man's strong arms and pillowed on his chest.

_This can't possibly be real_ , was his last thought before he sank into slumber.


	11. Morning

Dean woke up to Castiel wound around him like an octopus.

He squeezed out of the man's death grip and headed to the bathroom.

Afterwards, he walked out into the kitchen and started up the coffee pot.

He stared out at the destruction the storm had wrought in the night; trees down in his own yard.

He stretched and yawned in the soft early morning light. The lake was suspiciously flat like glass, just like it was after every storm.

Zeus sidled over and rubbed himself against Dean's legs.

"Mornin' sweetheart," he said, and went to fill her bowls with food and water.

He poured himself a coffee and went to sit on the front porch, where his cigarettes and lighter were waiting for him. He leaned back in his chair and put a cigarette in his mouth, touching the flame to the tip. He breathed in, the combination of smoke and coffee on an early summer morning doing more to relax him than most things ever had.

He thought about his brief panic, and his quick acceptance. He was lucky, he thought, to have been a part of the coffeeshop community for years. The general status quo around here was fairly liberal, but that didn't mean that men who liked kissing each other didn't get beaten in the streets every day. Still, his involvement with a crowd of people that often included gay or bisexual men meant that the initial confusion and terror wore off pretty quickly.

The part he was confused about wasn't the fact that Castiel was a man. It was that Dean wasn't given to romantic inclinations _at all_. He was independent; he had no family to speak of and had spent so long on the water he thought that a love story was pretty hilariously beyond his reach. No woman had ever made him feel this strange, heart-poundingly real way before. He wondered if he'd always been gay and just unaware of it because of society, or if there was just something different about Castiel. He certainly remembered enjoying the times he'd spent with women, so he'd landed comfortably on _bisexual_ , but that just made things harder because the gay community wasn't much more accepting than the straight one of bisexual people - particularly men.

Either way, something about Castiel had made him tongue-tied like he never was with women, and set his heart on fire.

The kind of something that involved kneeling with a ring and promises of eternity. But he can't have known the man for more than a month at the most.

He shook his head, crushed his cigarette in his ashtray, and picked up his mug of coffee. Going to the sink, he washed his hands, and started pulling out ingredients for pancakes.

***

Dean was singing _Highway to Hell_ obnoxiously loud and very off-key when Castiel stumbled into the kitchen, looking like a glaring, ruffled bird.

"Mornin' to you too," said Dean. "It's noon. It's a beautiful day."

He shoved a mug of coffee into Castiel's hands, who sat down at a chair next to the kitchen island and started drinking it with an exaggerated moan.

"All right then, grumpy," laughed Dean. "I hope you like pancakes. I put chocolate chips in 'em so you gotta have 'em with Hershey's syrup. Tried maple before but - nah. Just trust me. It's like a big soft chocolate chip cookie."

"And," said Dean, conspiratorially, "I made _bacon_. Crispy but with all the moisture still in it. There's a trick to it, y'know; you gotta bake it in the oven at just the right temp and timing or it goes all dry; too short, it's still floppy. And believe me - nobody likes floppy bacon. But nobody."

"The British do," rumbled Castiel. Dean was startled at how the low register of his voice went straight to his groin.

But right now, _food _.__

Dean plated up the pancakes and bacon. He poured the Hershey's syrup on his own and then offered it to Castiel, his eyes shining like a little kid's.

Castiel looked at the dubious amount of junk food on his plate and raised an eyebrow.

"Aw come on," said Dean. "Try it. You'll love it."

"This is unhealthy, Dean," Castiel said.

"I know," Dean replied. "Isn't it _awesome_?"

Castiel gingerly bit into the bacon, almost as if he'd never tried it before. His expression went from suspicion to pleasure. He dug in.

"Eh?" Dean nodded. "There's a diner in the West End where they deep-fry the bacon, I'll take you there sometime."

"If we're together now, Dean, I'm going to insist that you eat at least a few vegetables," said Castiel.

And at this, Dean froze. His chattiness was covering his nerves, and he didn't know how to think about what any of this meant; he made Castiel his _famous pancakes_ , for God's sake. He wouldn't even make those for Meg, and she was his best friend.

"Are we together?" asked Castiel, pausing to look up at Dean.

And so easily, so quiet and soft, it fell into place for Dean.

Like a feather falling slowly to the floor.

"Yes," Dean confirmed, and cleared his throat. "Yeah, Cas. We're together. If you wanna be."

Castiel grinned, and it was like sunlight on the lake.

"Yes," he agreed. "I wanna."

***

Later that day, Dean took a drive to clear his head.

He'd left Castiel at the house; he didn't bother asking if he had somewhere he wanted to go. If Cas was homeless, he didn't want to embarrass him.

The drive was a long one. Dean stared out of the window at the ribbon of highway, as the songs on the radio unwound like the road in front of him.

The night before played again and again in his mind.

Castiel standing there, next to the water, and suddenly his lips were against him, and…

The slight whimper Dean made he will deny to his grave.

He’d never thought of it…of them. Like that.

Not just with Castiel, but with anyone.

And now here he was, with a boyfriend, and possibly a live-in boyfriend at that.

He was surprised at how okay he was with everything.

When he returned to the house, and pulled up to the door, he was in good spirits.

He ran up the stairs two by two and went inside, excited to talk to Castiel.

Zeus came up to him with a soft _miaow_.

"Cas?" Dean hazarded, seeing the front room and balcony empty. "Castiel?"

Dean picked up Zeus and cradled him in his arms.

"Guess he must have left," he said into Zeus' fur, and tried not to be disappointed.

It's not like he'd insisted that Castiel stay, after all.


	12. The Garden

The sun was setting, deep behind the trees, and Dean sighed. Minnesota didn’t have a lot going for it, in his opinion, but summer tended to make him reconsider. There would be a bonfire on the beach tonight, he thought, as he stepped out onto the porch and put the cool lip of the bottle against his own. The beer was cold and welcome after the heat of day. It'd be a great opportunity to roast marshmallows, although bonfires were usually for drinking and smoking. Dean thought of Castiel, who might not have had the opportunity to have them, and planned to go to Jubilee for the ingredients for s’mores.

_Lightning bugs_ , thought Dean, as the little faerie lights showed up against the trees,  _wonder if they have those where he's from._

Something else in his mind said  _you sure think about Castiel a hell of a lot for a guy who doesn't do romance._

Defensive, he pushed that thought as far into the back of his mind as he could, boxed it and covered it with other things.

He decided that what he really needed was a drive.

***

Some of the leaves had turned, just here and there; some trees that hadn’t gotten the proper moisture in the summer, and were a harbinger of the coming change in seasons. Still, Skyline Parkway was nothing but green down into Duluth proper, and then the incredible blue spread of the lake, silver-clear and flat, a freshwater ocean. Red ships moved across it, and underneath the Aerial Lift Bridge, as he drove the curves of Skyline.

Maybe he’d drop down into Canal Park and check out what the prostitutes were up to, talk with the sailors, hit up Grandma’s. Grandma’s was a former brothel turned restaurant, although for some reason everyone refused to talk about this in public. Dean shook his head, smiling. 1996, it was time to embrace Duluth for what it was, and not get wrapped up in impressing outsiders. There’d probably be a fight down there at one of the bars too but he didn’t really have the money to gamble. His treacherous thoughts turned once again to Castiel and what he may or may not have experienced over the course of his lifetime, and whether Dean would be the person to introduce him to these new experiences.

***

Dean opened the door to the coffeeshop, mostly out of curiosity. The bells rang gently against each other . He took a deep breath; cinnamon and coffee mixed with gingerbread. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this place. Canal Park was supposed to be gritty; this new place was up against the Saratoga stripclub and the most incongruous coffeeshop he’d ever seen. Unlike the coffeeshops he was used to, there was no smoking allowed, and they provided drinks that he’d never even heard of, instead of the usual coffee, soda, chocolate milk, or tea with a side of whatever they were able to get at the pastry counter at the grocery store that morning.

Dean, much like everyone else in the Twin Ports area, looked upon anything as fancy as espresso as  _that weird New York thing._

Dean distrusted the place on principal, but he did have to admit that it smelled very good.

Some small voice in the back of his mind told him this was evidence that things were changing, with coffeeshops, with Duluth, with the world; but he ignored it.

He stopped dead when he saw who was behind the register.

Castiel.

After a brief and violent argument with himself, Dean approached the counter. Castiel looked up, recognized him, and smiled.

“What can I get for you, Dean?” he asked.

“You work down here?” Dean said, and then marveled at his own stupidity.  _Of course he does, you idiot,_  thought Dean,  _he’s behind the register._

“Yes,” said Castiel, unfazed. "I'm sorry I left without saying goodbye this morning, but I had to get to work and you were gone."

"Oh," said Dean, mentally kicking himself for believing Terese when she said Castiel didn't seem to have a job or anywhere to stay. The kind of people Dean hung out with wouldn't be caught dead going into a coffeeshop like this, so they wouldn't have known. 

"So...you're not homeless?" asked Dean.

Castiel stared at him, puzzled.

"No?" he said. "I live at the Washington Studios."

_Wow Dean,_  said his mind.  _Way to go, idiot._

Dean decided to cover his embarrassment with snark.

“This isn’t a real coffeeshop,” he said, “You can’t even smoke in here. The Ground is a real coffeeshop, open til 3 am and good Arco coffee.”

Castiel rolled his eyes.

“I hardly think that sludge qualifies as coffee,” he replied, “and breathing in the smoke of hundreds of people while drinking whatever Mike sees fit to pass across the counter is not healthy.”

“It’s the way of philosphers and scholars all over the world,” said Dean, “This town is French and cafes in Paris have the same thing going on.”

Castiel stared at him.

“This city is nothing like Paris,” he said, and the way he said it sounded like Dean had taken a left turn into eternity when he wasn’t looking. Eventually Castiel dropped the stare, but Dean’s heart felt pinned anyway.

“Besides, the smoke bothers me,” Castiel said, “Try this.”

Skeptical, Dean took the cup offered to him and inhaled, the scent of warm milk and cinnamon rising through him. He took a cautious sip and made a strange noise that seemed to go right through Castiel, who had gone rigid.

“This is  _awesome_ ,” said Dean, with feeling.

Castiel smiled.

“Then maybe we have a convert?” he asked.

“I don’t subscribe to your religion,” Dean replied with a grin, but he kept drinking the coffee anyway. For some reason, this answer made Castiel look a little sad, and Dean got out of the line so Castiel could serve other customers.

Under his breath, Castiel said, “You have always been mine.”

***

It was warm at night, as Dean walked from his car to Jubilee, the grocery store in the Plaza. The lake had been flat that day, as the purple twilight faded, the water and sky the same color with the few ships at anchor lighting up on the water. Darkness fell fast after the gloaming, and he found himself once again drawn to the water’s edge. Half-dreaming of the Caribbean, he picked out an iced tea and decided that it would be a good night to walk through the new Rose Garden built next to Leif Eriksen Park. These nights always reminded him of the one trip he’d taken out of the area down into the tropics, and it was difficult to remember that in a few months’ time, the city would be colder than almost any on earth. He took his blessings where they fell, and wandered out into the night drinking his tea and gazing up at the night sky filled with stars.

Dean had always loved Duluth at night in the summertime. The lights twinkling across the bay on Park Point, the Aerial Lift Bridge, the ships lit up like birthday cakes anchored out there beneath the stars. 

Dean walked down towards the Rose Garden from where he'd parked the Impala in the Plaza after he'd picked up s'more ingredients at Jubilee. Drinking a soda, he passed into the brand-new park, led there by the sentimental part of him he’d never admit to anyone.

The Rose Garden was, in a word, beautiful. Roses climbed over each other, red, pink, and yellow. Over in one corner, a white gazebo stood, delicate wrought-iron detailing crowning the structure in a dome. A place for weddings, he thought, and blushed to himself.

He saw a figure seated in the garden, someone with their hand around one of the roses. Intrigued, he walked closer, his eyes adjusting to the dark shadows behind the figure, wondering why he couldn’t see the garden beyond them.

Recognition hit at the same time as his brain refused to accept the information his eyes were telegraphing. A pair of huge wings, soft-feathered, spread out behind the man, shirtless and barefoot in a pair of jeans. The wings were iridescent; they reminded him of the colors swirling in pools of gasoline. While his brain was struggling to accept this in general, the next piece of information that came across the line was  _that is Castiel_

He stopped dead. Castiel’s soft smile as he cupped the rose was captivating, but he could not ignore the wings arching high above his shoulders, twitching from time to time, feathers shaking mildly.

He must have made some kind of sound, because Castiel looked up and his mouth dropped open. Dean was able to register that tiny roses and thorns had twined around Castiel's bare feet before the wings vanished, the flowers withered and turned to ash. Castiel scrambled around himself for his shirt and hastily tried to put it on, when Dean’s hands stopped him.

“Whatever this is,” Dean murmured, “I’ve seen it now. I think you owe me an explanation.”

Tentatively, Castiel lowered the shirt and stared into Dean’s eyes, searching for something there, love or trust. He must have decided that he liked what he saw, because he sat back down again and Dean followed.

Underneath a starry sky in the Rose Garden, Castiel told Dean who he was.

 


	13. Universe

“So….” Dean said, feeling stupid, “You’re an angel. Then.”

Castiel looked at him as though he was speaking another language. Maybe he was.

“No,” he said, “Not anymore. I am the northern lights. The aurora borealis.”

“What, all of them?” Dean asked.

Castiel shook his head. The small feathers in his wings fluffed out, as if he were…irritated?

“Human language, your words, doesn’t have the expressions necessary to explain,” he said.

“If you’re not an angel, why do you have wings?”

“How else am I going to get up there?”

Dean had to admit that this was a good point.

He had been to Venice, once. He’d almost never been able to work internationally but he was lucky during one summer. Dean's entire world revolved around the usual trips, Duluth to the Apostle Islands on to Whitefish Bay and back again. He remembered someone had once told him that people had declared an island in the lake a foreign country – Nirivia. He’d never been there but had admired the concept.

Venice was something new. He’d walked the streets there, his boots echoing on the cobblestones, and eventually became very lost. He remembered some dark alleyway dropping him down into St Mark’s Square, and the unbelievable expansive beauty of the place, so unexpected after the closeness of the twisting turns in Venice, took his breath away.

Venice was ancient, religious, magic. Venice was a sunset over the Mediterranean, drinking prosecco from a table covered in bright, fresh white linens, in a restaurant a man like Dean had no real right to be in but he loved to pretend, for one night. Angels looked down from every corner and cornice of the city, as people rounded the bends and curves on foot; their faces, robes, wings, carved so long ago they could not remember the hands that made them.

And Dean saw every single one of them in Castiel’s eyes.

***

Castiel stood, and the weather changed.

The evening was the ideal time for a storm.

The day had been clear and the lake calm like glass when the storm rolled up out of nowhere. Dark clouds, green-tinged, raced across the water.

Castiel turned to Dean, with that Old Testament look in his eyes.

The skies turned dark as Castiel reached for him, the waves and the wind began to pick up, and he caught Dean up in his arms, kissing him hard, the thunder loud and the lighting behind his eyes, standing in the pouring rain in the Rose Garden while lightning flashed and thunder rolled around them.

This time, Castiel was the storm.

Dean rocked backwards, his mind gone blank with surprise as the heavens opened and the rain fell wild and strong on the American earth. Momentarily it seemed that memories not his own spun through his mind like the sky, gospel and blues, slavery and discovery, an uneasy peace; the sound of cars on the freeway, the long empty highways, a beer on the porch in summer, Fourth of July stars and stripes cake, and this, here, now, as much a part of the interwoven mythology of the country as the colors and histories of a thousand nations that made it, following history down to this bare point, an ordinary man kissing an angel in a thunderstorm.

And Dean understood what it felt like to be held by a universe.


	14. Wings

Later, they were tangled in the sheets of Dean's bed. The morning sunlight warmed the room and illuminated the softness of the day. Castiel rolled over, lazy and delicious, sleep-drowsy and sated.

“What did you do? What happened?” Dean asked then, kissing his shoulder.

Castiel sat up slowly. He hugged his knees underneath the sheet. His dark wings flattened against his back; he no longer saw the point in hiding them.

“You mean,” he said, “how did I fall?”

“Yeah,” said Dean, “What was it that made you want to be a barista at a fancy coffeeshop in a derelict northern town?”

Castiel huffed a laugh.

“I fell a long time ago,” he said softly.

Dean propped himself up on an elbow.

“Oh,” was all he could say.

“I didn’t exactly  _fall_ ,” Castiel clarified, “I was given a new assignment, closer to earth. The night sky.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad,” said Dean.

“When you can never go back to heaven, the only home you’ve ever known, it’s not good either,” said Castiel, “It is very lonely.”

“All right,” said Dean, “Then what was it that lost you your job in heaven? What did you do?”

Castiel blushed, which surprised Dean. The other man had always been very stoic.

“A man,” he said, “I fell in love.”

Dean was quiet.

“Oh,” he said, even smaller. He knew it was ridiculous; whoever this man was, he was probably long dead, but it didn’t stop the stab of jealousy through Dean’s entire core when he knew that Castiel had lost himself for someone else.

 _Not that you want to be responsible for his fall, do you?_  asked the most irritating part of his brain. Dean ignored it.

Castiel offered a small smile.

Dean marveled at him. His beauty was like nothing Dean had ever seen before. He stretched his fingertips to caress the angel's face, and Castiel leaned into the touch, smiling.

“Why?” Dean asked suddenly. Castiel lost the dreamy look in his eyes, snapping to attention.

“Why what?” asked Castiel.

Dean sighed, and looked at the ground.

“Why me?” he asked. “I mean….you’re…what you are. Why would the northern lights choose me? Did you see me that night, at the party?”

“Party?” asked Castiel confused.

“On the beach,” Dean said. “I thought I was going nuts. An angel, in the sky…in the northern lights.”

Castiel drew back and gave Dean a hard look.

“You saw that?” he asked.

“Yeah, man, it was pretty hard to miss. I mean, at first I thought it was nothing – some kind of hallucination. I’d been drinking and nobody else seemed to notice it.  I …guess that must have been you.”

Castiel nodded, but the startled expression hadn’t left his face. He almost looked awed.

“I think it’s time you knew,” he muttered.

“Knew what?” asked Dean, trepidation flooding him. He’d never heard that comment go anywhere good.

Castiel sighed. He ruffled his wings and sat back on the bed, the sunlight streaming in. Dean thought he’d never looked so beautiful.

“We have known each other before,” said Castiel.

Dean’s brows drew together in confusion.

“I don’t remember you,” he said.

“No, you wouldn’t,” said Castiel. “This was many centuries ago. You were stationed in a small desert town. You were a soldier. Angels sometimes walk among men, and I was there, and we met…and I fell in love. Hard.”

The silence filling the room made Dean wonder, trying to remember a world where he had been a soldier. He’d expected memories to come flooding back to him but there was nothing. His mind was blank.

“And then…I fell.”

Dean stared at him.

“You mean you weren’t an angel anymore,” Dean said flatly.

“Yes,” replied Castiel, “I became what you know as the northern lights, suspended between the two planes – earth and heaven, for my crimes.”

“What happened to me?” breathed Dean. “Did I…did I love you too?”

Castiel smiled at the memory.

“Yes, very much," said Castiel. “At least, I hoped so. My own passion was so all-consuming I’m not sure I would have cared one way or the other. But you … it didn’t end well for you and I couldn’t help. And I thought I’d spend eternity there in the sky, above those wild waters. But people did come, and then more people, and I watched them all over the centuries, and I felt a little less alone. But I never felt whole. And then, one day, another angel came to tell me your soul had returned to earth, and in this life had never had a guardian, which is unheard of for a human soul to endure. So they restored my wings and I returned to earth for love of you, to serve as your guardian.”

Dean couldn’t really process what he was being told.

“What if I’d rejected you, this time?” he asked.

“I thought you might,” Castiel replied. “But it doesn’t matter. I had to know. I had to see you again.”

“Do I look the same?” asked Dean.

“No,” Castiel shook his head. “Nor do I. But the other angels assure me your soul is the same.”

Dean stood up from the bed, pacing the room The enormity of this story weighed on him.

“Are you all right?” asked Castiel.

“Just – it’s just –“ he said, “It’s like my life was decided for me before I was born, like I’m a character in some folktale, and nothing can change. Fate, destiny, all of it.”

Castiel stood and went to him.

“Every choice you've made has been your own,” he said. “Hundreds of years ago or now. You have always had a choice. You still have a choice. Nothing is written in the stars. Believe me – I’d know.”

“Seems like a lot to bank on,” said Dean, “when you had no idea whether or not I’d be interested.”

Castiel’s eyes were hard.

“And I’d do it again,” he said. “Every time.”

“But I’m not actually  _him_ ,” said Dean, despair creeping into his voice, “I mean, maybe we share the same soul but I’m a different person with other memories, experiences, personality..”

Dean looked up at him.

“You didn’t fall in love with me, not like people do,” he said. “Not like I did with you.”

“Dean-“ Castiel began. Dean held a hand up.

“Did you fall in love with me as a man or were you pursuing this soul, regardless of the person who came with it?”

“It’s the same thing,” said Castiel.

“But it isn’t,” Dean insisted, “You just said I don’t even look the same. How could you be so sure you’d love the man who was carrying this soul?”

"Because I have done nothing but love you for centuries,” Castiel said.

“No. You love  _him._ You fell for  _him._ Not me. It’s like when your dog dies and you get another dog that looks similar but isn’t the same. Sorry, but I’m not interested in being the replacement for someone else.”

“It’s  _not the same_ ,” insisted Castiel. “You are the same person, Dean.”

“No. No I’m not,” Dean said, turning away, shoulders squared. The tension in his back was evident.

“Dean – " Castiel began.

"No. Leave. Please.” said Dean. “You’re in love with someone else, Cas. I’m not interested in being your second choice.”

Castiel wanted to argue, to weep, to cajole, but realized Dean would not hear him. He walked out onto the porch, the screen door slamming shut behind him. He could see Dean’s frame, still resolutely facing the wall.

“Oh, my love,” he murmured, “how you always used to talk to me thus, and how your anger has not changed.”

And he spread his great iridescent wings, and took to the skies.

 

 


	15. Autumn

The autumn leaves were gorgeous this year, and every year, along the North Shore of Lake Superior. They flooded Duluth with brilliant yellows and reds. The warmth in the air still felt like summer, but there was a crisp note reminding everyone that this was merely the punctuation before the rest of the year, a question mark curling through the town.

Still, there was time left, for a few more bonfires, for the Bayfield Apple Festival annual pilgrimage most in the Twin Ports would make, cider-drunk and chins covered with chocolate and caramel. Hunting season would begin soon. It was all part and parcel of the world holding its breath just before the winter exhale of freezing winds screaming in off the lake as the sun turned the water blood-red in the winter dawns, cold enough to crack the windows.

The cold always got in, somehow.

This autumn evening, Dean gunned it, and the first red light on Second Street changed. The streetlights were nothing if not reliable, and each one of them changed over green one after another as they'd done for years upon years, if you just hit the right speed. He'd gone home just this way many a night, after good conversation, or bad, or sometimes romance. Late nights driving home on Second Street were part and parcel of good memories, particularly in the summer, particularly in love, after a day where the sun had been perfect and set the lake to a twilight purple, the warmth of the evening blossoming into the late-night darkness, he had never hit the lights on Second Street after 2 am with anything other than a dreamy smile on his face as if the winter would never come to call.

Dean stood outside the Greyhound station, willing himself not to look back over his shoulder at the town. Out in the West end, it was far enough removed from the downtown area that he felt he had already left. 

 _He didn't love me,_  he told himself.  _It was the memory of another man. He'll get over it, he's ancient. He'll get over it. We all do._

He shook his head, dropping his cigarette to crush it out against the grey tarmac of the parking lot. The bus turned into the lot, wheezing in its deep voice. There was only a dusting of snow on the ground, but any Minnesotan knew this was only the beginning.

"It wasn't real," Dean told himself with confidence as he slung his bag underneath the bus.

"It wasn't real," Dean told himself as he went up the steps.

"It wasn't real," Dean told himself as he sat down and leaned against the window. The bus pulled out into the drab grey day, the empty trees stamped on the steel wool sky.

As the bus climbed above the city on its way to Minneapolis, he watched as it disappeared around a corner.

 _It **was**_   _real._

_It was the realest thing you're ever going to get._

_It was the realest thing any human may ever get._

Dean sighed, and turned away from the view, staring straight ahead as the bus joined the freeway, hurtling down the road, putting miles between himself and Castiel, going where the northern lights could not follow.

 _I know,_  Dean thought miserably.  _And I don't deserve him._

_***_

"He left."

The words were dead. Brittle branches, snow in the yard, late winter.

Everyone they knew still went to the same coffeeshops, the crowd was the same, the cycle of coffee/bar/basement party/beer rotated through the winter, though far more subdued. This was the season of slow and contemplative music, long philosophical talks as the snow built a barricade outside and they had nothing but wine, beer, whisky, and each other.

But Dean was gone, and Castiel had vanished likewise, back into his apartment, seated with his broken wings on the bare mattress, ashtray on the floor, looking out the wide windows at the starry sky over the lake, in a darkness where the absence of the northern lights silently accused him.

"Go away, Aeon," muttered Castiel.

"Castiel," said Aeon, trying to be gentle, "You always knew this was a possible result."

"Yes, but only three months?!" demanded Castiel. "One summer! One! After suffering for – for –

He waved his hand to indicate the years that had passed since he had first loved the man, til now.

"No matter what," Aeon reminded him, "it would only have been for a human season, compared to your lifespan."

Castiel shook his head.

"Even  _I_ know there's a difference between a – a summer fling and," he said, without finishing.

"And marriage," said Aeon. "Growing old together."

Castiel did not honor him with a reply.

He placed his hands together.

"Please help me," he said.

When he looked up, Aeon was there in front of him. Though he usually had a smirk on his face, this time he looked sober and worried.

"What's wrong?" Aeon askd. "What happened?"

"Was I sent back here as a punishment, brother?" asked Castiel, his voice breaking.

"No, of course not," Aeon said. "It was meant to be a boon a reward for your service, an understanding of the situation."

"He doesn't want me," said Castiel, miserable.

"You always knew it was a possibility," Aeon responded.

"Yes, but not  _after_ we had – we – " said Castiel.

"I'm sorry," said Aeon, "We can't predict what they choose to do. Sexual relations aren't as meaningful to them as they are to us, they don't carry the same weight. We can't predict what they will choose to do. We are eternal, immutable; once we love we cannot return. They are not the same, Castiel. They are not like us."

Castiel's head dropped to his chest.

"Then take it away," he said. "Take these wings, and place me again in the sky."

"You can't," he said. "You chose to be his guardian whatever the cost. You have to serve your purpose."

"Humans are wondering what happened to the northern lights," said Castiel, desperate.

Then he turned to Aeon.

"If that isn't possible, " he said, "Can you return the memories of his soul to him?"

Aeon shook his head, but Castiel grabbed his hand.

"It's about choice for them, isn't it?" asked Castiel, "So that means h should have all the information at his disposal to make an educated choice otherwise it isn't fair."

He and Aeon stared at each other.

"Aeon," he said. " _Gabriel._ Please."

"Hey, stick to the codename," Aeon said. "I'm not supposed to be helping you."

Then he nodded sharply and gave Castiel a tight, encouraging smile.

"I'll...I'll see what I can do," he said. "I'll try to convince them. But you're really pushing it, Castiel."

"We've been friends for millenia," said Castiel. "We're  _brothers._ Just...please."

"Yes, I know," said Aeon. "And that is why I will do everything I can. Remember me, if I ever need a favor from you."

And Aeon vanished, leaving Castiel alone in the room.

He looked up at the ceiling, and closed his eyes, as he thought:

_Please._

_Hear me._

_Remember me._

_Return to me._

***

In a small, nondescript hotel just outside of Minneapolis, Dean suddenly stood up.

He stared wildly at nothing, breathing, trying to calm his heart. The panic rising in his chest –  _what if I never see him again_  – he tried to calm it, push it away.

 _It's not me he loves,_ he thought, trying to hold on to his fury, but it was slowly being replaced with a deep and hungry sadness.  

The black cat wound its way around his ankles, and he moved away from it to sit down on the sofa. He'd brought Zeus with him, just in case.

 _You told him to go_ , said a voice inside his head.  _You can ask him to come back. Apologize. Make things right._

 _No,_ he thought stubbornly.  _He loves a memory, not **me.**_

And he gasped, falling forward and clutching his stomach, as his mind was flooded with images.

_Standing guard in the desert heat, strong and solid, he could feel the sun and warmth on his arms, the air fresh and soft._

_The night air, choked with the scent of jasmine, and...and..._

_A man. Glowing bright._

_He shielded his eyes, fear beating in his heart. A messenger. He fell to his knees before the awesome sight, repeating again and again his inadequacy before such terrible beauty._

_And the man took his arm, pulled him up, and those eyes told him it was all right, he was enough._

_More than enough._

_And nights of milk and honey followed, and days spent on post, and the love they had shared together, and the distress whenever they were separated. And always, always, the night and bright stars, like no stars he had ever seen before._

Panting, Dean returned to the present, as the flood washed away, ebbing into his subconscious.

He sat back against the couch, scrubbing a hand across his face.

Gingerly, he prodded at his memories. They were all still there – intact. He had been a soldier in ancient Babylon, and he had loved, and he had paid the ultimate price for it. And his lover – he  _knew._

A different face, a different body, but he'd know him anywhere. 

He was the same. 

_Castiel._


	16. Winter

And the season turned, and the snows came.

In Minnesota, deep and deadly like the fears of all human ancestors, the cold and the dark.

There, winter is a living thing, a monster snarling around the door.

And the whine of the Greyhound bus doors opened, and Dean stepped down into the bitter, endless cold.

***

There it was, in the late year's snow and the four o clock darkness, that kind of northern gospel that is spelled in the stars, the moon far and cold. Dean forgot, at this time of year, about the promise of every summer. Most did, truth be told. And yet there was a song in the dark crispness of the night, the door swinging open to remind you how close, yes, you could be to death just by walking outside, and how a once-welcoming night hid temperatures that dropped so far below zero he was never quite certain if or why anyone would make a thermometer to mark it. Here lies death, he thought, and the silent stillness of it all, the grave before the grave.

Dean walked to his car, and like all Minnesotans did so boldly, as though a lifetime of these winters had taken the edge off the horror of them, opened the door, turned the key, and the cold air blasting through the cab, he knew, would warm soon. It was here, in the twilight between cold and warmth where he began to see it.

_Faith._

He prayed, he prayed then, because he knew there was faith in every person living in the area, every human being who woke and worked and laughed and slept here, that the heat would return, that the warmth would come, that they would see the summer again, and from door to door, they would survive the cold. Duluth was a place of doorways, portals between the night and death and cold, and the warmth and welcome of home.

And maybe, although it would break every rule of romance in this city that had weathered the wind and the darkness, it would bring the northern lights back to him. They were supposed to be a winter phenomenon, after all. Maybe not his, and maybe not here, in this apex of the cold, but faith and prayer brought him to finally say it out loud, to shape the word with his lips, to acknowledge with his heart that he was not alone, that he did not want to be alone, that it was a show and a ruse, and the things he was fell to pieces like ice shards as they melt, and he confessed as he became another him.

"I love you," he murmured, as the car's heater warmed skin, a shield against the cold and engulfing darkness. "I love you, Castiel. Please come home."

There was no reply. He set his forehead against the steering wheel and sighed, turning the Impala into the street as the music from the radio played, the thin, tinny sound of AC/DC from a radio only beginning to thaw underneath the cracks in the ice.

***

Dean braced himself as he kicked open the car door and dragged the case of beer along with him. The cold hit him like a physical thing, his nose and throat stinging with each inhale. His eyes teared, keeping the water in them from freezing, and he had never known the walk from the gravel drive up the red staircase into the screened porch to take so long. It was agony, and he cursed his lack of preparation as he'd forgotten his hat in the car.

He fumbled with his keys in the darkness, til he finally unlocked the door and the blast of heat welcomed him as he fell inside, nearly dropping the beer. He breathed a sigh of relief and set down the case, his ears throbbing with the pain of the cold. He could have wept for the warmth of it, the sweetness of the heat on his skin, and knowing he would not have to go outside again tonight. The weather forecast was predicting -40 and it was clear the temperature had already tumbled far enough for even a short time outdoors to be deadly.

He cracked a beer and walked into the living room. He stopped in his tracks.

The Christmas tree lights blinked on and off softly. The cat purred. And two long, beautiful wings with every color reflected in their black feathers spread out across the floor as Castiel looked over his shoulder.

Dean stared, lips to the bottle.

"You came back," he said.

Castiel smiled, soft and gentle.

"You asked," he replied.

***

"Castiel," Dean croaked, unsure if he was imagining things.

And Castiel was there, the moment his name left Dean's mouth, great wings still fanned out, breathing with the exertion. He stood there, eyes wild, staring, afraid to speak.

"I...I remember," said Dean, "How did you know it was me?"

"Did you know it was me?" Castiel asked.

"Yes," said Dean, barely audible.

"How?" asked Castiel.

"I would recognize you anywhere," Dean admitted.

"Even with another face?" asked Castiel, stepping closer. "Another voice?"

"Of course," said Dean. "It's  _you_.  _Castiel._ "

And Dean kissed him hard and full, and Castiel moaned against the soft silk of his mouth, relief and joy, as he wrapped his great wings around Dean's trembling frame, concealing them from the world.

And the fog rolled in around them, Dean hidden in his wings.

***

_Duluth...Duluth...Duluth..._

That word like a heartbeat, spoken with his mouth, but a voice not his own.

"Dean?!"

A voice, shouting for him.

"Dean!"

Dean cracked an eye open and immediately regretted it. He groaned in pain, the dim light of a warehouse searing through his vision, his body one endless ache.

"Dean, you gotta wake up," said the voice, urgent. 

Finally, Dean opened his eyes. They focused, eventually, on a tall, broad-shouldered man with long hair.

" _Sam,_ " Dean coughed. Sam was on his knees in an instant, helping Dean to his feet.

Castiel was there, too, looking around with caution; his angel blade was in his hand.

_Like they were on a hunt._

"Whuh," Dean tried to say.

"It was a djinn," Sam explained, half-dragging him. "We lost you weeks ago. You're lucky to be alive. Really lucky."

He deposited Dean in the back seat of the Impala like a sack of potatoes, and climbed into the driver's side. Castiel got in next to Sam, and threw Dean a worried look over his shoulder.

Dean stared at the back of their heads, trying to make sense of things, as the familiar low rumble of the Impala carried them out and away to safety.

Throughout the long drive, Dean kept slipping in and out of consciousness.

Castiel kept turning around to check on him, as if he wasn't sure Dean was really there.

_You and me both, buddy,_ Dean tried to project at him, and then passed out for good.


	17. Below Ground

Dean woke, much later, to find himself in his bed in the bunker.

The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead. He glared at them.

He looked around, at the cold walls with no windows, at the floors that were always freezing when he stood up in the mornings. The little insects that inevitably made their way indoors. 

_Buried alive,_ he thought to himself.  _As if you don't already know what that's like._

He thought of a house, up a red wooden outdoor staircase. A wraparound balcony. Views for miles, over the pine forest, down to a lake that could've been the ocean, blue and purple in the sunrise.

He wondered why they'd chosen to make their home like this, underground, where he felt blind now. He couldn't  _see_ anything. 

_Trapped, and it felt like freedom. Before._

Despite his claustrophobic feelings, he found that he couldn't get out of bed. He struggled into a seated position.

There was an IV drip in his arm. He stared down the length of his body. 

_When did I get fat?_  he wondered, touching his stomach, and feeling the weight of himself underneath the blankets.

"Dean."

Castiel's rough whisky voice cut through his thoughts. Dean looked up.

There he stood, in his trenchcoat, looking tired and a lot more wrinkled than the Castiel in his dream. That man had smooth skin, and eyes bright like a Caribbean Dean had heard about, but knew he'd never see. When he was young, and traveling around with his Dad and Sammy, he found out that those magazines in the travel agent windows were free. He'd grabbed them, in every and any town they stopped, and feast his eyes on the beautiful, calm photos of the bright blue water. The soft white sand, the colorful houses, and a world so far removed from his own that he wondered sometimes whether it was real. It was a silly thing to do, but those little magazines were a glimpse into a life without monsters, a time spent studying something just for the sake of it, and not for learning what kinds of things can kill what goes bump in the night. In Dean's young mind, the Caribbean was where nothing bad ever happened; it was the only vacation he'd ever know.

The Castiel of his dream, and the Castiel standing in front of him now, had the same serene Caribbean eyes. 

And Dean knew, now, how readily he'd drown in them.

"Cas," he said instead.

Castiel took this cue to walk into the room and sit down on his bed. Dean wanted to curl around the weight there, but this Castiel wasn't the northern lights come to save him from himself. This Castiel was a war buddy, all business. Dean smashed down any feeling that might betray his own misery.

"What happened?" he asked. Castiel shifted into a more comfortable position, and Dean wondered how his mind had conjured up such warmth with this creature, who sitting here, was cold and alien as distant stars.

"Michael is creating powerful monsters," Castiel ground out. "When he stopped possessing you, a powerful djinn took you. I doubt you were conscious for any of it. You're very sick; when we found you, it was only a few minutes before you were gone for good."

"Why'd it keep me for so long?" asked Dean. "That's not their usual MO, is it?"

"No," said Castiel. "I'm not certain if it was the recent angelic possession, or the fact that you're Dean Winchester, that made him prolong it, but there was definitely a sense of it being personal to this particular djinn."

"Well, we've killed a lot of 'em," Dean said, with a weak laugh. "Uh. Cas."

Castiel looked at him. Those eyes shone Caribbean blue even here, in the low light.

"Why'd I - I'm overweight," he said. "Thought you got skinny when you were dying."

Castiel nodded.

"Yes, many people think that way," he said. "It depends on the disease. In your case, due to the immune response of your body, you needed steroids. Cushing's is a result of that."

Dean stared at him.

"Okay," he said, trying to keep his breathing even. "Okay. Cushing's? That's from - it's from taking the medicine for a long time. How long's it been, Cas?"

Castiel looked away.

" _Cas._ "

"Three months."

" _Three months!_ " Dean yelped. "Three - three fuckin'  _months?!_ "

Castiel shrugged.

"It couldn't be helped," he said. "Dean, you were delirious. I almost -  _we_ almost- lost you."

Dean couldn't think about this, about an entire year slipping away from him like that, so he focused on the other situation at hand.

"Did you kill the djinn?" he croaked. Castiel nodded.

"Yes," he said. "And we're still trying to find Michael. I'm sorry to ask you this when you're in such a fragile state, but - is there  _anything_  you might be able to tell us? Any idea where he is? Anything at all."

Dean fell back into his pillows, hating his weight, hating his weakness.

"Try Duluth," he said, crossing his arms.

"Duluth?" Castiel asked. "We heard he was there, briefly, but-"

"Trust me," said Dean. "It's Duluth."

Castiel nodded.

"I will," he said, and stood. "I'll tell Sam."

The mention of his brother made guilt wash hard through Dean.  _No family to speak of,_ said the djinn-dream Dean, mocking him.

Castiel stood up, and brushed off his coat. He walked to the door, and paused when Dean spoke again.

"Why didn't you heal me, Cas?" Dean asked instead. "You're an angel."

Castiel sighed. He stood framed in the doorway, like someone dangerous in a film noir.

_The kind with legs that go on for days, you mean?_ asked his mocking subconscious.

"There are certain injuries I cannot help," said Castiel. "I did what I could; I laid hands on you. I assume my efforts are what saved you, but that might be wishful thinking. This kind of injury is the kind you need to come back from on your own."

Dean rolled over and buried his head underneath the pillows.

"What good are you, then?" he said, muffled and angry.

He thought Castiel might say something back, but all he heard were the angel's footsteps receding down the hall.

***

"Dean."

_No._

Dean just couldn't face him. Not after - not after.

He rolled over, and there he was.

_Sammy._

The overgrown kid he was never going to see as anything other than an overgrown kid. He still saw Sammy, the gangly fourteen-year-old, the kid who kept following him around because he thought Dean was  _so cool._ Dean thought about how annoying it was then, even though they were the kids of a hunter, he didn't want his loser little brother getting in the way of Dean impressing chicks. 

Sam's wistful hazel eyes just made Dean's heart hurt.

He was holding a bowl of soup. He held it out for Dean.

"C'mon Dean, you gotta eat," said Sam, his earnest, quiet voice making Dean hate himself all the more.

_How could I forget you, Sammy?_ he thought.  _You, Dad, Mom - even Bobby._

"Nah," Dean said. "It ain't a cheeseburger, I ain't talking."

Sam deflated a little.

"Dean," he said, in a weary tone.

"How is it you can make my name sound like a thousand different things?" Dean asked.

"Dunno," said Sam, cracking a bright little smile, "Brothers, I guess."

_Cas can do that too,_ Dean's evil brain reminded him. He ignored it, and took the bowl.

"You want to talk about it?" asked Sam.

"Do I ever?" Dean countered.

"Come on," he said. "It doesn't have to be a heart-to-heart. It's about the hunt."

"Did you make this?" Dean interrupted. "It's really good, Sam."

"Yes, I did, and don't change the subject," he said. "You gotta talk about it, for our sake."

"Told Cas I think Michael's in Duluth," said Dean, through the soup.

"Gross, Dean," said Sam. "How the hell are you doing that through  _soup?_ "

"It's a talent," he said. 

"Dean -"

"Dean this, Dean that," groused Dean. "Give me a second, Sammy. I just returned to the land of the living, and I'm fat, and apparently I'm gonna be working real hard just to walk. This bedroom's gonna be all I'm seeing for a while, okay?"

_Tell him you feel buried alive._

Dean considered it, but couldn't deal with the sort of sad-sack crap he'd get if he tried to do anything as rash as, God forbid,  _confide_ in his drippy little brother. Sam thought  _talking about feelings_ was the way to go.

Screw that. These feelings were gonna be stowed deep inside and stamped on until nobody knew they were there.

"It's only temporary," said Sam. "You'll get better, and stronger."

"And in the meantime, I'm a liability," said Dean. "Hell. I'm  _bait._ You don't think any and every Tom, Dick, and Harry ain't gonna be lookin' for me, now they know I'm down for the count?"

Sam studiously ignored this outburst, and went back to talking about the job.

"It's funny you should say that," he said. "Cas - he said that the demons used him for bait. He couldn't see them. Do you know what that means?"

"He's an unobservant idiot," said Dean harshly. Sam rolled his eyes.

" _No,_ Dean," he said. "It means the demons are powerful enough now that  _Cas can't see them_. Whatever Michael is doing, it's changing the rules of the game. Maybe forever."

"Great," said Dean. "Just what we need. Right when I'm at fighting fit."

He gestured at his body beneath the blankets.

_You always did think you were worthless, Dean. Now you're useless, too!_

God he wished he could kill that voice off without killing himself in the process.

"You'll get better," said Sam. "I promise. And you're going to talk about it. Soon."

"You gonna hold me down and fart on me if I don't?" asked Dean.

"If I have to," said Sam. There's that bright little smile again.  _Sammy._ How could he forget?

"Empty threats."

Sam took the bowl from him and stood up.

"Get some rest," he said. "And the next time I see you, you're fessing up."

"If you say so."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

The door closed, and Dean stared at it for a moment, trying to rebel and stay awake. 

He lost the battle, and fell deep asleep in the softness of his pillows and comforter. 

 


	18. Time

And it did, indeed, take time.

_Too damned long,_ thought Dean. 

Sam was there to help, support him as he regained his strength, as he tried and failed and tried again.

Castiel was there, too, helping.

He fumed and gurned about  _needing to be helped._

Six months passed this way. Six months they should've been out there, fighting.

Six months, and Dean started to look and feel like himself again.

But it didn't help the shame that lanced through him every time he saw either Sam or Castiel.

"Why didn't you save me," he shouted at Cas. Castiel just bowed his head and took all the abuse Dean could hurl at him.

"Why didn't you find me sooner," he asked Sam, when he'd had to turn down his umpteenth cheeseburger because  _you can't eat like that if you want to get fit again, Dean,_ giving him a look of pity with his big soppy eyes.

And always, ever, from Sam:

"Will you please talk about it?"

And Dean resolutely refused.

One day, when Dean was strong enough to be working out in the gym on his own, Castiel appeared in the doorway to ask if he needed anything.

"Will the two of you  _knock it off?_ " Dean sniped. "I've lost the weight! I ate all the garbage green stuff Sam's been feeding me! What do you _want_  here, Cas?"

" _I thought you were dead_ ," Castiel suddenly snarled, all Biblical fury. "I thought you were dead, and I didn't have the power to rescue you from Hell again and piece you back together! If you were gone this time you were  _gone_ , Dean!  _Forever!_ "

"What does it matter?" Dean demanded, getting right up in Castiel's face. "All I've been is useless! There's nobody even gonna talk to me like this, Cas! I can't fight, I can't do anything. You had all these people here, and they left! Even Mom!"

" _You matter, Dean,_ " Castiel replied. His eyes held all the rage of the storm.

_Wow, he's really close,_ thought Dean.  _Close enough to kiss._

_Shut up,_ said his mind.  _He's not some idiot in his twenties, with a streak of blue hair you met at some beach bonfire. You really thought you were worth starring in some kind of ridiculous fable? The northern lights, sacrificing themselves for **you**? That's rich._

"I will not let you die, Dean Winchester," Cas said, his words the sudden calm of safe harbor, and those blue, blue eyes, so like the Caribbean in those long-forgotten books, were still a place of peace and grounding. "I will not."

"Yeah well, fat lot of good that did me," Dean retorted, because his feelings were crashing into each other, wild waves in a storm that still circled his soul.

Castiel pursed his mouth,  _those lips are really pink,_ thought Dean; he began to fall forward into a kiss he felt like a gravitational pull, but Cas just sighed deeply and turned on his heel, leaving the room.

Dean went back to his weights, hating himself, hating his slow recovery, hating that any recovery he had was slow at all.

Some minutes passed, then an hour; time felt slippery, like he was losing it too fast.

"Dean."

Dean closed his eyes against the lecture he just knew was coming.

"Don't, Sam," Dean said.

"No," Sam replied, walking into the room and sitting on one of the weight benches. "Spill. Out with it. Right now. You don't treat Castiel like that. He's just trying to help."

"Sure he is," Dean snarked.

"Okay, this?" Sam said. "This stops now. I'm going to kick you out of the bunker myself. You're wandering around here grousing about everything and everyone. This is really unpleasant, Dean! For  _everybody._ So why won't you- "

"Because I  _can't,_ Sam!" Dean shouted. "Because you weren't there!"

Sam stared at him.

"I wasn't where?" he asked.

Dean sat down heavily on the bench opposite. He put his head in his hands and stared at the floor.

"In my dream," he said. "My ultimate dream, fantasy, whaddayacallit. You weren't there at all, like ... I'd never known you. Not Mom, not Bobby. Not even Dad. It was just me, and - I had some basic job, I had the Impala, and I was taking a summer off."

Sam sighed, and pushed his hand through his long hair.

"That's understandable," he said. "Our lives are hard. I mean, you saw my heaven - you weren't there either. It doesn't mean we don't love each other."

"But Cas was there," interrupted Dean, in a small voice. Guilt laced through his words.

When he looked up, Sam was smiling at him in a very strange way.

"What're you lookin' at me like that for?" asked Dean. "I'm spillin' my guts to you here, man."

"Sometimes," said Sam, "I wonder how you got to be the big brother."

"What's that s'posed to mean?" Dean demanded.

Sam shook his head.

"Nothing," he said. "Look, Dean, I understand why you feel bad about it. But it was just a dream."

"Castiel was the northern lights," said Dean, even more ashamed, but now that he'd started he couldn't stop talking. "He gave up heaven for me, in my dream. Well. Not me, but my soul. Apparently he'd known it before, or something. Anyway. Some bullshit that is, right? Like I'd matter enough to star in that kind of fairy tale."

Sam's look of disbelief increased into a point that it eventually morphed into a bitchface, one that Dean had never seen before, which was really saying something.

" _What?_ " Dean asked, exasperated. "I'm never telling you anything again. Jesus."

"I just think," Sam said evenly, "that you've been starring in exactly that kind of epic story for, oh, ten years now."

"What the hell are you talking about?" asked Dean.

"' _You gave up an army for one guy,'"_ Sam mimicked. " _Dean and I do share a more profound bond._ Like. Are you hearing any of this?"

"That doesn't - it doesn't," Dean said, and found he was lost for words.

"Anyway. Just think about it," said Sam. "And about the dream, and me not being in it?  _It was just a dream, Dean, that's what those are for._  You were raised - hell,  _brainwashed_  - to protect me, like I wasn't really a person, but a mission. Maybe it's time we unwound ourselves from each other a little more. It's not healthy, and it's just not  _necessary_  anymore. When we were kids, you were  _never_ a kid, Dean. You were a soldier. Maybe it made sense back then, and that's a pretty big maybe. But now?"

He turned, and looked carefully into Dean's face. Dean was heroically trying to avoid meeting his little brother's eyes, and failing.

"These last six months, you've not slept," said Sam. "Every strange noise, every little bump, you had to be up watching, waiting. I sent everyone away because I thought it'd give you peace of mind. You didn't like the bunker,  _your home_ , invaded by a bunch of strangers, and let's be honest here, Mom hasn't exactly been there for us. So I thought you'd sleep better, with everyone gone. But you didn't! And the thing is, you  _couldn't have done anything_ if something had gotten in here! And the thing is, Dean,  _that's okay._ We all have to look out for each other, and sometimes that means  _I take care of you._ There's no shame in it. None of this is your fault."

"I said yes to Michael," said Dean, miserable.

"You tried to protect us, just like you always do," said Sam. "And I get that you're not going to be able to get over it, maybe for a long time, maybe ever! But the thing is, man - you gotta start letting go. For both our sakes. I'm your brother, and I love you; I don't want to see you hurt yourself. But I sure as hell don't want you sacrificing everything for me. Not anymore."

Sam clipped him on the shoulder.

"You got that?" he asked. "Is it sinking in yet? You're not just a soldier, Dean. You have a life and needs of your own."

Dean looked up at Sam, and cracked a smile.

"Okay?" asked Sam.

Dean nodded.

"Okay," he said, because he couldn't really trust that tears weren't going to follow anything else he chose to say.

Sam left the room, and Dean laid down on the weight bench. He got his hands around the bar and started lifting, letting the deep ache of his muscles consume his being, the only sounds in the room his harsh breathing as he continued the long road back to health.


	19. Drive

"We found him, Dean."

Dean looked up from where he'd been writing in his journal. Leatherbound, like his dad's. Maybe he could feel useful after all, he thought.

Castiel stood in the doorway, unsure.

"C'mon in," Dean invited, ignoring the way his heart beat a little faster when Castiel walked in and closed the door.

"Where are we headed?" asked Dean. "I'm itching to get out of here, man. Stir-crazy like hell. Could use a good hunt."

"It's over," Castiel said. "I killed him."

A cold sweat broke out on Dean's skin.

"You did  _what_ now," he said quietly.

Castiel sat down on his bed.

"He violated your trust," he explained. "I couldn't save you. But I could do this for you."

"That was my kill!" Dean protested. "I'm healed, you said so yourself!"

Castiel held his gaze.

"And I would not see you suffer, when I could do this for you," he said. 

He reached a hand across the space, to - pat him on the shoulder, the leg, Dean wasn't sure. He moved just out of reach, and Castiel dropped his hand.

"Okay," said Dean. "Okay. Uh. Thank you."

That traitorous voice in his mind kept shouting  _he's in your room, he's in your **bed** , find some excuse to make him stay!_

But he just couldn't. There was no romance here. Just war buddies.

_Yes, who have sacrificed themselves over and over again for each other._

_Me and Sam do that._

_Do you and Sam look at each other like you're looking at each other right now?_

Dean coughed, just for something to break the tension.

"Since that's taken care of," he said, almost as an afterthought, "do you wanna take a drive?"

Castiel smiled. It was a strange, almost mad look on him, like he'd read about smiling somewhere and was giving it the old college try.

Dean absolutely did not think it was adorable. Dean did not even know that word. 

"Yes, Dean," said Castiel, and as he shrugged his jacket on over his shoulders, he thought of how many times he'd heard that exact phrase from the angel's mouth.

***

The countryside around Lebanon, Kansas, didn't have the same kind of grandeur as Duluth, but Dean had to admit it was beautiful. It was autumn, and the leaves were changing again; there'd soon be a light snowfall around the bunker, but nothing like the total madness of a Minnesota storm. 

"I dreamed I was in Duluth, you know," Dean said carefully, gauging Castiel's reaction. "It was picture-perfect in every detail, and I've only been to that town a couple times; once, to save Jo from - well, Sam. He was possessed though."

_Man, we have some shit lives,_ he thought, as he leaned back, one hand on the wheel. The country roads curved around hills and valleys, leaves of every color on the road like snowdrifts, spinning and stirred up as the Impala roared past. The roads were blessedly empty, and he felt alone in the world, just Dean and his angel in the passenger seat.

_My angel,_ he thought.  _Guess that's true, at least. And that's more than enough already._

"Djinn dreams are often specific," Castiel said. "Besides, he used what Michael knew about the city. You were right, by the way; we did find him there. I killed my brother in a warehouse near the water."

_Castiel has killed so many of his siblings in your cause,_ Dean's brain reminded him.  _And you're being precious because you had a dream imagining your life without Sammy in it._

"Sam wasn't there," Dean went on. "Or Mom, or Dad, or Bobby. I was alone. I even remember thinking  _I have no family to speak of_."

Castiel considered this, and nodded.

"You feel guilty," he said.

"Hell yeah I feel guilty," said Dean. "The djinn are supposed to give you everything you want, right? Is that what I really want?"

Castiel gave him such a fond look that Dean nearly forgot he was driving and overcorrected on the turn. Once the car was straightened out again, Dean blew out a breath of relief.

"To answer your question," said Castiel, "djinn dreams are...more like wishful thinking. They are what the  _djinn_ thinks you want. Those are not necessarily your thoughts."

_Not necessarily,_ Dean thought.

"And, uh," he said. "There's more."

Castiel raised an eyebrow.

They came to the crest of a hill, and Dean pulled over. He got out of the car and indicated that Castiel should do the same. Puzzled, he did as instructed, and sat with Dean against the front bumper.

"I gotta get this out," said Dean, breathing the free air and feeling strong, and free, for the first time in months. "Either I do it now or Sam's gonna, and I'm not willing to spend the rest of my life living that down."

Castiel just looked at him, patient, waiting, like a cemetery angel. Always watching over him.

"You were there," Dean said quietly.

"Dean, it was just a dream -"

"No. You gotta just listen or I'm not gonna get this out," said Dean. Castiel fell silent and nodded.

"Go ahead," he said.

"In my dream, you - you fell," said Dean. "Um. For me. For my soul. We were...together. You were the northern lights. I don't know why. But you had wings. And it was kind of hard, but like...regular-people hard. I still seem to have some hangups even in dreams. But it had this feel, this summer vacation, young-love feel; we couldn't have been older than thirty. Well, obviously you were older than that in the dream, but you  _looked_ that age and I'm pretty sure I was too."

Dean couldn't bring himself to look at Castiel.

"And I'm sorry if I was a dick to you this whole time," said Dean. "But you gotta know it's cause - it's cause I thought - well, we were -"

"In love?" asked Castiel gently.

Dean huffed a laugh.

"Yeah, I guess so," Dean said, feeling the blush creeping up his neck without his permission. "It just seemed so - so huge, you know? The northern lights, in love with me. Stupid. Anyway. I just wanted you to know. Why I, uh. Haven't been great company the last few months."

The silence that followed this overwhelming admission on Dean's part worried him. He sneaked a look at Castiel, whose expression was wholly unreadable. This Castiel had tanned skin, and his forehead wrinkled when he raised his eyebrows; Dean didn't know if angels aged, but he assumed their vessels must. The Castiel he'd seen in his dream was even younger than the angel he'd stabbed in the barn that night, a young man with a natural blush and crazy-high cheekbones. 

Until his convalescence, Dean had never felt  _unattractive_ before. It was humbling, and terrifying. There was no guarantee he'd get better, and that feeling wasn't just about his looks, but his ability to help, to be involved, to do his job. And so he felt like he didn't have much to offer Castiel to begin with; an alcoholic with PTSD and seven thousand different kinds of repression, but now, he couldn't offer anything at all besides himself.

He told Castiel as much.

"All I've got left is my soul," Dean murmured. "And, uh. It's yours. If you want it."

Rejection wasn't an experience Dean was all that familiar with, but he was playing so far out of his league right now it was in the stratosphere. He figured he'd eventually snap back from it; there was no shame in being turned down by an actual angel. His trying was already so presumptuous that he scarcely believed it, but he'd be haunted by that dream forever if he didn't even try.

"Dean Winchester," rumbled Castiel, "Your soul is the one thing on this Earth that could make me fall."

And there, on some nameless roadside in central Kansas, Castiel kissed him; and Dean was startled by how out of this world it was, and how of this world it was, all at the same time, supernatural and mundane, while the leaves fell all around them.


	20. Home

Dean held Castiel's hand on the leather bench seat of the Impala.

Because he could.

He also couldn't seem to stop smiling.

Castiel didn't say a word as they wound their way back to the bunker.

When they climbed out of the car, Dean didn't take his hand again.

He pushed the door open to see that everyone had returned in their absence.

"Sorry, Dean," said Sam, walking out into the map room, "I figured if you were good enough to drive, you were good enough to deal with everybody here."

"Dean!" Jack shouted, and threw himself into Dean's arms like a little kid. Dean smiled, and untangled himself.

"Good to see you too, kid," Dean said.

Mary came forward next, and hugged her son.

"Welcome back," she said.

"You too," Dean murmured, favoring his mother with a smile he used only with her.

Everyone in the room seemed to be waiting for something. He looked at Castiel briefly, and the angel nodded to him.

"We've, uh, lost a lot of people, over the years," Dean began. "All of us, I guess. Hell, I even almost lost myself."

The group that had gathered nodded; they were no strangers to grief.

"But in that time I've learned that we gotta hang on to the people we don't lose," he said. "Michael may be gone but those monsters are still out there. And I think it's high time we take them down a peg."

Dean reached across the empty space, and hooked his pinky through Castiel's. The angel was stoic, as usual, but a flush of pleasure traveled up his neck and lit his eyes Caribbean blue. Sam noticed this, and smirked; Dean rolled his eyes good-naturedly, because they didn't really have to speak to each other to know what the other was thinking. Sam, his soulmate; Cas, his - 

 _True love,_ said some part of him he didn't recognize. But he had to admit it was true.

"The people who love me stood by me," he said. "And I think we've all got to learn to be strong, for each other. Whether that means research or fighting or supporting each other when we're down. Family's a choice and it's what's gonna make us stronger."

And Dean realized, there, with the connection to Cas's little finger sparking bright in his veins, that his story was always a fable. The true American Gothic folklore running deep in this country, etched onto the bleached bones of the dead, deep and enduring as a lake the size of oceans. He was the faithless warrior an angel had chosen to love, and sacrificed everything in the meantime; only the angel thought he did not lose by so doing. He could only hunt legends so long before he became one himself, a faerie story for lovers to tell around the campfire, beneath the stars, and the northern lights, beside the dark cold waters of an eldritch inland sea.

And so, Dean Winchester, half man, half faerie story, put his hand more firmly in his angel's, and squeezed. He knew, without a doubt, the aurora borealis would be dancing tonight, like they two had danced across black tiles reflecting the stars, once upon a time in a dream.

"So," he said aloud, to those assembled, "Whaddaya say?"

He grinned, all gold and green, encircled by a holy light, Caribbean blue.

"Let's go kick some ass."


End file.
